Your Face (kandigurl) wrote,
Your Face

Yesterday, Mr. Noir (aka tomnoir posted an essay prompt, but I was too busy bitching about Buffy haters to respond to it. It's cool, though, I'm okay now, and ready to tackle said prompt, which is: What is the best place you have ever lived? What specifically made it so wonderful? Or, if you've lived in a succession of mediocre places, where would you LIKE to live, and why?

So here goes. I'm not really sure how to answer this one, so it could get rambly, and very likely, it will get nostalgic. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. Tread with caution.

Places. It's funny, I get very attached to places, but as soon as I move into a new place it becomes home. I'm a lot more adaptable than I thought I was as a kid, especially for someone who lived in the same house from age five to age nineteen. I've always lived in Texas, except for my first three years which were spent in Maryland. Back then, I lived in a house with a family my mom was nannying for. I lived in the attic, although I didn't realize it at the time, I just thought it was my room. The ceiling slanted right over my bed, so I was always convinced it was going to fall on me at any minute. I remember very little about the people and events at that house, but I remember the building very well. And my fear of that damn ceiling.

We went back there several summers ago, I think it was five or six years ago. The owners were out of town, but the next door neighbors who remembered my mother said the door was unlocked, and to go on in. After taking a moment to be impressed by the small town sense of security, we walked in, was strange. It was like getting to walk around in a building you've only dreamed about, where everything is somewhat out of place. Mostly, I was shocked by how small it all was. You forget, when you're a baby, that you're actually proportionally smaller to the world around you. It's weird to see it from an adult perspective, and see this house that was so big and sprawling back then is actually very tiny.

I got to see the room I slept in, now filled with boxes and a distinct lack of ventilation, and it seemed so small and cramped. But that ceiling was just as ominous as ever.

Anyway. Since then, I've lived in a couple other places and then the house I spent most of my childhood in. I don't really miss living there, but I miss my room. I've tried to recreate the space in apartments I've lived (live) in, but they don't have the same feeling as my old room did. There was not a bare inch of wall space thanks to the posters. There was not a bare inch of floor space thanks to my complete lack of organizational skills. But in a way, I miss the sense of freedom I had there. It's different from the sense of freedom I have now, and at the time, it felt like I was trapped in. But it was the place I could go when I wanted to get away from the rest of the house, and I spent most of my time there. It was a small space, too. When I pulled all of my furniture out and the posters off the wall, it struck me just how small it really was.

I guess I'm used to small spaces. I've also habitated in a quarter of a garage (which was cool except for the mysterious itchy diseases) and now, I live in the smallest apartment my complex offers, a sweeping 485 square foot manor. Despite being an obsessive pack rat, I couldn't imagine needing any more space than I have right now. If I could find a house just this size, it would be perfect, and also adorable. My parents moved into an enormous house, top of the line, customizable, mammoth. It freaks me out. I like my cramped space. I've grown accustomed to making do with teensy-weensy spaces. If I could live anywhere in the world, it would be in a teensy-weensy house, right in the city I live in now, except on the other side of the highway. This town is home, and I don't intend to leave it.

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