i couldn’t open my front door last night. it took a full minute to realise I was using the wrong key. my house key, which was once so normal, seemed too small in my hand.

does everyone feel this drifting centrelessness when they return home? walking around the streets of gosport feels like walking through some old dredged up memory, mindlessly familiar and yet oddly jarring – so different than the physical frame in which i experience everyday life.

maybe it’s because i didn’t grow up here; there are only two short years binding me to this spot of rock and they sometimes feel as if they didn’t happen.

but devon, location of my childhood and my adolescence, doesn’t feel like home either. i have nowhere to hang my hat there; someone else is growing up in my house.

nottingham, my temporary hat stand, isn’t really home either.

i have called all of these places home but i don’t feel like i have roots in any of them.

maybe i need a new place that’s just mine, where the keys fit the locks.

i think i just need to make sure home is within myself, not without.



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