From here to there

Ultimately, a house is not a home. Not a house with four walls, large rectangular windows, a back-door, a hand-painted nameplate.

It could be just as good a shelter. A watchtower. Or an undercover address for a fugitive war criminal.

A house is a house because you have come to rest. In the silence of your own, you lose the noise of the superfluous. The expected, the unreal.

Unobserved. The house is a place where you rub the dust out of your eyes. Remove the cobwebs from your mind.

Sometimes - the couch, the bookshelves, the newly padded beanbag - watch you while you're acting like a young dog. Running through the living room. Honestly, it's a bit overdone.

But this happens when a home is your world. The piece of earth where you meet yourself. Where you are, where you become.

Oddly enough. When you have such a place. Only then. Then you can close the door behind you.

To set out on a journey.