feeling “at home” somewhere has always been a thing for me. it’s very important for me to have My Home or My Area. currently, I don’t know where that is. I call both Louisiana and the apartment in Minnesota “home”. I “flew back home” for the holidays, yet we “made it back home” yesterday. but I feel comfortable in neither of them; I don’t feel like I belong in either.
all of my shit is in Minnesota. my rent and my cat are here. my job is here. but my friends are back in Louisiana; and my family, and my history. my history that I wanted to escape — much of which I did successfully.
when I do go back to Louisiana, I am able to surround myself with only the people I like and care for. for the most part, my life away has allowed me to create a kind of haven in Louisiana. and I have very little history in Minnesota, so there’s almost nothing to escape or hide from.
I suppose I’m just babbling. I’ll go back to work tomorrow like normal. though I don’t really belong there. and I’ll live in this apartment that’s not really mine. and I’ll talk to people who are only just barely my friends. but I won’t long to be back in Louisiana, because there lingers so much negativity of memories and people. and I’ll just remain an orphan of home.
I’m close now, near a
place I used to call home.
It’s supposed to be easy to
come back to something so
ingrained in our bones. Yet if
that’s true, then why does
the familiar feel so cold?