I didn’t write yesterday because I had nothing worthwhile to say. I figured I ought to write something today, just so I don’t fail BEDA that pathetically.
I’ve moved a lot this year. In case anyone was wondering, counting week-long hotel stays and camping out on couches, I’ve spent time in seven cities since May. The most peculiar sensation has to be when you don’t know where to call home anymore. I’d like to say that my parents’ house is my home–it is where I spent all of my time from fifth grade through high school– but it hasn’t felt like much more than a pit stop on the way to other places for quite some time. It’s not that it isn’t homey, but it’s just not mine anymore. I don’t want to jinx anything, but I think I would only be sad for my past self if my parents moved because I know this house has become the place where I grew up, not the place where I live. I rented a room in an in-law in San Francisco this summer, but that was also just a place to crash between work and work trips and escaping to my sister’s company whenever possible. That certainly wasn’t home. I never plan to live in that area of San Francisco ever again, so even if I find myself living in the city in the future, I still won’t say that where I lived this summer was home. Davis, Santa Cruz, and Scottsdale don’t count because I was in hotels for business trips, but they still felt a bit like a home, if only for a few days at a time. While I feel most myself when I’m with my sister, I would never consider that house a home. I suppose the last place to mention is my sorority house. It has definitely been the place where I’ve spent the most nights over the last two years and I cannot deny that it does feel the most like a home, but not in that romanticized icky way where I kick off my shoes at the door and I’m comfortable being myself in there. It’s mostly just the most homey because it seems like the most likely place where I’ll put my head down at night, odds-wise. The dice are weighted in the sorority house’s favor.
Though I seem to have found myself figuratively homeless these days, I still use the word “home” frequently. To me, the word itself now just refers to wherever I’m going to sleep that evening, or else where I am most likely to have to return to at the end of whatever vacation or trip I am on. I loathed my place in San Francisco, but if you called me on a Friday afternoon, I would say that I have my suitcase loaded up and I’m about to start driving home.
I think the beauty in the idea of “home” has been lost on me, much as I have lost the ability to find things like love letters and fireworks to be beautiful. It seems that, the more I think about what something ought to mean to me, the less it actually ends up meaning. I’ve tried so hard to decide where I should officially call home and whether I’d ever find that place that the word has become purely functional. The warm glow of the home is gone, joining the glitter of the fireworks and the way words of adoration once shone in my mind. I think that place with the beautiful words and their meanings filled with feelings must still be out there somewhere, but I’m definitely not seeing it.
I didn’t really understand the meaning of “jaded” until it became my most shamefully prominent quality.