Every time I come back in this town I… finally know the difference… between going back and going home. (butch walker)

I highly doubt anyone is still reading my scattered thoughts, but I’m in the mood to write, so write I will.

I’m back. I’ve consumed Chick-Fil-A, Waffle House, Zaxby’s, (American) Mexican food, gin and tonics, and other frightening foods. I’ve hugged my family, drank sweet tea, and walked around my mother’s gardens. I’m dog sitting, back at work at Liz, and sitting on back porches in Georgia heat. I love it, but I feel as if I’m floating above reality. Nothing feels real for these days of transition. Everything feels like it’s occurring in a blur, in a vacuum, in a black and white world. I’m walking through a museum of the life that I left three months ago.

As I think about over-analyze and contemplate my next decision, I’m once again feeling suffocated by the options. In such a time of shift and transition, I want stability, but when I think of life in an office, working nine to five, finding “stability,” I freak out that I’ll never leave.

It’s good to be back. It’s good to be able to text my friends and hear about their few months in real time versus through cyberspace. It’s good to drive a car and play with my dogs. But it’s also a transition, and transitions are always difficult.

The difference, I told my friend Sarah, is that home is no longer in my room at my mother’s house, or in Rome, or even in Atlanta. Home is somewhere inside of me, and I’m searching for it. Home is in my hope chest, in my collected photos and magazine articles. Home is in my recipe box and in my friend’s stories, in the conversations I have with my friends from all around the world. Home is somewhere in my future and somewhere in my past. I have many homes, and I go home to many places, but in this shifting reality, I’m finding it difficult to grasp any one place and call it my home. That’s the difference.