Some facts:
{I haven't lived at home - in the house where I grew up - since I was 18}.
{Between 2008 and 2013, I moved five times. Some were shifts into new chapters of my life; some were misguided adventures. Some were shared; some were solitary corners into which I retreated in order to heal}.
{I am a master in the art of packing. In all of my moves, only one dish has broken. Though this last time I said fuck it, and packed most of my stuff in hoarded, doubled-up Trader Joe's bags. The outcome was iffy}.
{I've gone home to many places but few places have been home}.
{Once, in 2011, the year I moved twice, I was heading home at night, slightly drunk. Of all the apartments I'd lived in, I couldn't remember which one was my current residence, and was momentarily unsure of where to go}.
{You find out who your friends are by who's willing to spend an hour helping you get an oversized couch down three flights of twisty, narrow stairs and through an unaccommodating and poorly-angled entryway, and being okay with you paying them in Thai food and beer}.
{Books are heavy as fuck. But in each domicile, they have been among the things that have given me the most comfort, and I wouldn't trade them for any Kindle ever, even if that Kindle could also do my laundry, dishes, and taxes... Wait, let me give that some thought...}
{Living alone is glorious. Everyone should do it for awhile. Also, wearing pants is overrated}.
{Sometimes all that movement is lonely and restless, and it all seems pointless, and you feel like you'll never be happy. But I have found that nothing can happen, nothing good and nothing bad and nothing brilliant, unless I say "yes" often and decisively}.
{Home is not a place, not by a long shot. Home is the love you show yourself and home is the love you share}.
Original illustration by Isabella Rotman
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