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On the Elusiveness of Home
Home. What an elusive concept. So hard to pin down. Especially for me. I seem to be constantly looking for a home. The only consistent home I know is my own body — and even that is a vessel so mysterious, so out of control, that it rarely feels like a welcoming abode.
After 15 years of living in London and three relationships, I am yet again single. In total, I’ve lived at six different addresses, and I feel like this last one probably won’t be permanent for too long. So where is this home of mine, after all?
I went back to Romania last week. This is where I was born, but it feels as far from home as anywhere could. That can mean only one thing: London — this crazy city with over 8 million people roaming about on a daily basis — is the only place that comes close to what I could call home.
It’s almost impossible to say what makes London so special to me. It’s probably its energy — the endless thrill of always having something to do, mixed with the possibility of shutting the whole world out and spending an entire weekend reading and writing in my cozy studio flat overlooking the ever-changing park.
