Home.

What makes a home? Is it the walls, or the portraits on them? Is it the town or the people in it? It's all subjective really. That old saying Home Is Where The Heart Is comes to mind. But what does it really mean? For me, It's quite simple. My home lies in my memories. It's not so much a place, but a place in time. Home is the gray couch coushion that i used to build my fort. Home is the white stuffed bunny with the soft pink nose. Home is the rush i felt with our first kiss and the sadness i still feel knowing that we won't share more of them. It is the pulse of my subconscious. The images i see when I close my eyes and the lacking i feel with their fading away as i open them. Being someone who has moved around alot, state to state, city to city, i find it challenging growing attached to a house. It has always seemed a tad bit unnecessary to me. Im not saying I don't understand why certain people lend so much weight and value to a house. Now that i own one ive gathered that It's the idea of this house that i love.  the fantasy of it. closing my eyes and envisioning a family, and a future. growing old here. but if it were to burn down tomorrow, though i would be sad for my lost things, i would not be homeless. i dont believe that someone who is loved can be homeless. ive had my fair share of sleeping outside. on couches. in storage units. etc. but i have never been homeless. i have been a traveler. every city ive stayed i has been my home. every bush in which i laid was my house. every other traveler my family.i had no issue leaving and starting anew elsewhere. when i got to laguna i felt something a tad bit different. there were people there who i grew to love. i grew to love them so much that i chose to stay there. i made real friends. had real relationships. i grew. ive found that as i grew and changed and matured in that city the attachment for the place grew stronger. it wasnt the beach or even the people, it was the memories that i was forming. the life that i had there..the day that cowboy died i think is the day that i lost the will to stay.i knew it would never be the same. that followed by the end of the three year relationship i had in that city made me not want to go back. i would go weeks without going into town, then months.

this brings me to part 2. You Can't Go Home Again. I was in Laguna on friday. Hugging old friends, walking old haunts, and reminiscing. I had a great day but it just wasn't quite the same. In fact, it was almost disappointing. The beauty of that place lives in my head. Every time i go back and don't see Rich and Jared and Brock and.Paul and Frankie on the sand on a blanket: every time i pass by my old place. When i sit on the. Patio of Starbucks and there's not a familiar face in sight, i am reminded that this place is no longer mine. A new crew will now take over the territory and we have all been scattered to the wind to follow our own paths. But while i sit in bed in my new city, and think back on the place that added so many perfect chapters to my story, it still feels like home. No more my home than the house in which i now dwell, but certainly no less. so i guess i was wrong about part 2. you can go home again, even if only in your mind.