Yesterday with Mom and Bob's help, we moved the desk, the TV and my bed. My bed is now in my new room at Kelly's house.
I haven't paid my first rent, or even gotten on the lease yet. Nevertheless, I live there now. Wherever my bed is, there is my domicile.
Every time I move, I think about home. Sure, every place I've lived has been *called* home - and they've always been better places to be than, say, at work, or in jail, or at a family reunion - but I haven't lived in a place that was really "home", in the sense of a Platonic ideal, since I was fifteen. I've lived six places since then (counting my four college dorm rooms as one aggregate "place"), and each time, I've known: the place I was leaving was not home; the place I was going to was not home. They are only places where I live, where I keep my crap, where my cats hang out.
This is most of the reason why I have not decorated the last two apartments at all - the walls stay bare, because even as I move in, I know that sometime, I'll be moving out - and chances are, the new place still won't be home, either.
I'm beginning to wonder whether any place will ever be home to me again...
This has to be the most singularly melancholy terminus for a train of thought I've come across in a long while.