Elizabeth Scripturient (the delinquent, ecumenical (hermionesviolin) wrote,
Elizabeth Scripturient (the delinquent, ecumenical
hermionesviolin

taking stock [vegetable, not beef]

As i was riding the train into Boston yesterday, i was thinking about one of the conversations my mother and i had that long Friday night, about how i don’t think i could live at home after college, at least not comfortably. On the train i was thinking about how my room at Smith feels like home, and a lot of Norwood itself still feels like home despite everything (like being at the library, for example; also, when i walked out to the library Wednesday night i thought as i walked out in the night air that this was mine, this walking the streets of my town at night, it’s what i do and i know where i’m going and it’s mine) and it occurred to me that what the deal is with my room/house in Norwood is that while it’s comfortable enough, familiar enough, it doesn’t feel like mine, it feels like my parents’ house, like my family’s house, and that’s what it is, it’s not mine anymore. And that’s okay. I can see myself in some apartment feeling like home, but this house doesn’t feel like “mine” anymore. I thought about how i’m starting to make Boston mine, going places on my own, figuring out how to get places and getting comfortable, doing it on my own instead of just following along while my family does everything. This is what becoming a grownup is, making things mine, not just something i do with my family.
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