Home(less)

"Home, to me, is the place where you know where everything is in the kitchen."

This occurred to me the other day as I was watching a friend pack, getting ready to move out of her place for good. I went to the store to get some food, and this thought struck me. As someone who likes to cook, it seems rather apt. It describes just how comfortable I have to feel in a place in order to call it home. Granted, I didn't live there, but the place you live isn't necessarily "home". Still, her place wasn't home, but it felt more like home to me than any dwelling I've been in for a long time, even those I've actually lived in. I knew my way around the kitchen. That's "home" enough for me.

To have that degree of comfort with a place and with the person or people living there is a wonderful thing. Even if the person living there is you and you alone.

Where I live is not home. It is a place to sleep and occasionally hide from the world, but it is not home. While I am very comfortable with the person living there, it is not home. It doesn't have a kitchen.

Right now, I am homeless.

Sandbox

A sandbox is a place to play around, build up, tear down, laugh, cry, babble, imagine, tell the truth, lie, and even eat some sand, if you feel so inclined. In a sandbox, you can say what you want, as long as there are no grown-ups around to admonish you for your foul language. You can do what you want. You can be what you want. You can ignore the reality beyond the sides of the box.

So, build a sand castle. Knock it down. Write the word "fuck" in the sand. Maybe hastily cover it up or scratch it out if the eyes of a too nosy grown-up wander a bit too close. Or not. Do what you want. It's a sandbox.

Play.

Have fun.