I had a bit of an emotional moment recently when coming home from my boyfriend's house. The dynamics of homes are weird. Flitting back and forth makes this really apparent. At his house the air feels different, I can't move things around wherever I want, and I don't have a room all catered to me that I get to spend all my time in. There are nicer things about his house, not least that he is there (that's kinda the main selling point), but also that the bathroom is neater than mine, and there are duck ornaments. I love the duck ornaments. But my place is where I know how everything works. I know the intricate ways of dealing with the weird little annoyances of my own home. I know where every kind of toiletry and every kind of food is kept. I also have a bedroom that is filled and arranged in the best way possible for me. All my clothes are there, all my art supplies are there, and all my cuddly toys are there.
I wish home was something portable that you could take anywhere with you. I wish that home was just a part of me, but it's not. Every time I come home I feel relieved and relaxed. I can take a big bath for as long as I want, wear whatever weird pyjama combination feels best, and keep a messy little table full of pens.
I wish I could take that with me in a little box. Being attached to a particular configuration of place feels unnatural. It feels limiting. I wish I was that typical idea of a snail, carrying its home around on its back. I wish I didn't need a solid and permanent home that I'm used to to feel normal and wind down. It's a weird piece of psychology, to need a specific space to be properly comfortable. I wonder if it's possible to make it so that I am my own home, so that I don't need to feel like I've carved out my own personal space because I am that space wherever I am.
I just want to be home - that is, to become home.