art love, via wooster
When we awoke our pretty ditty heads today, it was in a new room in a new apartment in the same city. It felt foreign, like we were at our very first sleepover in the third grade and had had a nightmare from watching Dogs, the b-movie horror flick our own mother never would have let us watch, and had woken up to new smells and new spaces and new creakity cracks in the floorboards. It's like that whenever we sleep somewhere new, somewhere different. Now when we go back home to visit our parents, we wake up the same way, in a bedroom that was once our own, but is now as foreign to us as our third grade best friend's house from our first (our very first) sleepover is to us now, if we were to look her up and go back to her mother's old duplex.
But all this will change. In a few nights and after a few more boxes are unpacked, we will begin to feel at home. We will know just where our keys are and just where the coffee is and just where we like to sit at night. It will be home, and it will be ours.
So despite jumping head-first into a dark pool of (what's the exact opposite of Comfort Zone, dearies??), we are happy and content and whole. Because alas, cliches became cliches for a reason, wherever we hang our hat (currently it's in a box labeled "hats, tools, blender, & pillows," but you get the idea) is where our home is, and our heart, of course.