Well, who ever said "You can never go home again" was really on to something.
As of about 4 o'clock yesterday my apartment, no longer held enough of my trappings for me to classify it as 'home' anymore.
The bulk of my belongings are currently wreaking havoc in my father's dining room, with the exception of the prized possessions which have earned a place in either the turtlepack or one of the four crates my Dad has offered to store. Whilst surveying the great mountain of debris at Dad's place, I realised that Dad's place was, exactly that... 'Dad's place'. That despite the relocation of my clutter, the idea of 'home' had not relocated with it. That the house in which I grew up, even though I will be residing there again, is no longer 'home'.
Later that night, with a mammoth ginger slug purring on my lap (who's finally forgiven me for moving out in the first place), it dawned on me, I am no longer bound to a location. An unsettling thought, but a liberating one. 'Home' is no longer a physical destination, it has become something intangible. It is hugs from family that you can feel over the phone. It is running jokes with friends. It is the rumble of the Squish purring in my lap. All of which I take with me where ever I go.
I am nomad. Hear me roar.