a home, above all else, is familiar. it does not have to be comfortable, nor does it have to be full. a home is probably a favorite place to be, or maybe it houses some of the cruelest memories.
I like homes where I can drive quick and still avoid each upcoming pothole-- ones where old neighbors and new couples hunker down for their respectful chapters of life. I like homes where I can walk around each obstacle in the kitchen with my eyes shut tight and only bang my shins a little bit.
a home is a sense, an intuition. it is a place where you can dance while no one is watching. you can fling your tears and regret at the walls and let them absorb your true feelings, hushing you with their pillows and soft sounds and views.
a home is a home anywhere you choose it to be, but above all else, a home is familiar, and that is a home to me.