Home

Home.

It is a place where you belong.  A place where you are comfortable.  A place where everybody knows your name.

It’s never home, at first.  It’s never home, because the old place was home.  The old place was familiar, and you’d lived that and grown accustomed to it.  This new place is scary, and never as good as the original.

But what makes a home?  A hotel room checked into for a single day is not home, but a hotel room checked into for a week is.  You must stay in that hotel room for a long time, and so you become acclimated to it.  After a long day of business, or pleasure, the hotel room is a solace, a place of peace comfort.  And when you return to your house, the house is what feels unfamiliar, despite it being your “home”.

A home is not a home until you make it that way.  It hides, buried, and you must dig to find it within the place you reside.  Sometimes, the digging is simply the passage of time, or sometimes, the digging is simply adaptation and acceptance of your location.  But often, you must craft your house into a home, through cleaning, building, coloring, rearranging; turning where you are into where you want to be.  Any house can become a home, even a damaged one, with work.  To not dare to do the work is to risk foregoing the happiness being in a home can bring.

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