Finally, after years of searching and waiting and crying, I am home.
I just got a new apartment. New to me, that is.
It’s been so long since I had a place I could call “home”, that I barely remember what it feels like. I keep waiting for someone to take it away from me, just like they did every time I managed to find a place.
I’ve lost all my homes. And now, to be able to say I have one… It brings tears to my eyes.
Home is not only the walls and roof. It’s safety, it’s a little nest full of precious things like books and art, it’s hope for the future and rest in the present. It’s warmth in the cold days and a gentle breeze on the hot ones. It’s wonder and awe and creativity.
Home is freedom, to me.
I saw a poster in the metro the other day. “Home brings you back the joy that the street took away”. While I was never per se in the street, I’ve been homeless more than once now. Living with others or at others’, not having a say in what was going on, not even being able to eat when I was hungry.
That poster rang true to me. Having a home brings me so much joy.
But more than joy, a home brings dignity. I am allowed to sleep when I am tired, to eat when I am hungry, to write when I want to. I am able to make my own decisions. To invite people over if I so choose. I can make my own decisions. I am finally an adult in my own right, at 33 years old.
And I intend to make the most of it.
Is it perfect? No. It’s right over the train tracks and the noise when the window is open gives me headaches. It’s tiny. It’s impractical. Do I care? No. It’s MINE.
My little corner of Earth, on the 6th floor, with the trains and the fridge that’s so loud it invades my sleep, with my books and my paintings and my laptop. There’s no wifi, and I don’t care. I just don’t care.
I have a place to call home.
A place where I can live my quiet little life without interruptions, without having to bend over backwards to fulfill someone else’s needs, without fear of being thrown out at the first sign of a fight. A place where I can write and edit and maybe even art.
A place to put my clothes in, my thoughts, my hopes.
A place where I can, finally, simply, defiantly, live.
Minerrale is a French writer and artist. No cats, no dogs, no husbands, just a rabbit helping her, she has all the time in the world to write, make art, and help others in their creative endeavours.
Minerrale writes all kinds of things, makes visual arts and photography pieces, and overall tries to help. With your support, she can keep the stories coming, and keep making art and photography pieces. Thank you, so much.