If someone was to ask me my definition of home I would stand there searching for an answer for an uncomfortable amount of time. If I were to be entirely honest with myself, it has been a long time since I’ve felt like I’ve had a home. Since the tender age of fifteen I haven’t lived in one house or spot for more than six months. I have packed up and left everyone and everything I know time and time again. Ruthlessly severing my chance of creating a home, and then just like that I pick it all up again and within a month I’ve all but moved on from my previous life, made new friends, started a new job, started new endeavours. I have moved further from the few people I consider family, I have moved from the security of my small-town adolescence without a blink of an eyelid, and since doing so I’ve felt a severe sense of restlessness. 

I am unsettled. I feel I move with my feet barely touching the ground, everything I do occurs at super speed. You know that option on a DVD where you can watch a film at x1.5 speed because you’re in a rush? That is how I feel about my every day existence. I collect quality friendships with amazing people along the way, I stay friends with them; but I never stay put long enough to really cement a group of friends in one location. I do feel a sense of envy when I see people who have made their home and their homely lifelong group of five friends. I guess this is the sacrifice I make. 

I feel a sense of pride in my adaptability. I take big changes in my stride, and I do it all on my own. I don’t have a fall back, I don’t have a support network, all I have is my sheer sense of independency and drive to do more than merely survive in this life. I want it all, and for the most part I trust in myself that I have every tool to go and get it. There is a dark side to this, there is a loneliness that creeps up on me from time to time, and I do sit back and feel sad for myself. I live in a ball of pressure that I’ve created for myself, I live in the shadow of a superior version of me that I have endeared. I am in the mindset that no achievement is satisfactory, and I am incredibly cruel to myself. The only person I’ve never been good enough for is myself, and so I run. I move, I keep moving, I keep chasing everything. I decide that I am moving and a week later I am moved. 


I create a sanctuary where I live of little trinkets that I have collected during my life; this gives me solace. The decorative nature of my existence gives me the false sense of home even though I am somewhat of a gypsy. But lately I’ve been feeling the baggage, I’ve been feeling consumed by objects and running to the vastness of nature more than spending time within my sanctuary. I am at a crossroad where the question of “home” shows no clear path. 

There are so many perks of being a master of change, but if someone was to ask me my definition of home, I think tears would swell in my eyes because [even though all my poetic troves] the answer I simply do not know.