Gypsy

People ask me why I like it here so much.  Why I like this state that I don’t really have any ties to.  But this is it.  It’s either here or home, and this is the only place I’ve lived during my adult life.  I got married here, I learned how to do taxes here, I learned how to cook pancakes here.  I’ve done everything here.  After three non-consecutive years I’m finally learning my way around and figuring out where to go.  I don’t have anything to compare this place to except for home.

And then people ask me why I’m so averse to being home.  I love home so much.  Everything is familiar and everything has a past.  But that’s the thing–everyone is familiar and everyone has a past.  When I’m here, I’m fairly independent.  I don’t have everything from home clouding my thoughts.  I love home, but it does bad things to me.  Being at home is like chain smoking.  It’s fun for a while, but sooner or later it’s gonna kill you.

So if I have no real attachment to here, and I seem to have given up my attachments to home, does that make me homeless?  Am I just a gypsy, still?

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