I have mentioned before that ‘home’ is a concept that is quite important to me. Being a person who moved house a lot (I’ve lost count–somewhere over 23 times), and especially being a child who moved house a lot, I’ve developed a weird sense of attachment to living spaces.
That is to say, I get way too attached.
Every place I have lived has represented a very defined period in my life. Because of that, when I move house it becomes painfully aware to me that this is another chapter closing … I know, when I hand in yet another set of keys and close another door behind myself, that I have gotten older and I have said goodbye to another fleeting snippet of my life ( … which is not melodramatic at all … )
I’ve never existed in the same building for more than a handful of years, and the smallest amount of time I’ve lived somewhere was less than a day (to be fair, that house had a huntsman spider infestation. No one could have lived there more than a day). But no matter how long I live in a place, I feel an overwhelming sense of melancholy when I leave.
Despite this, no place has ever compared to how difficult it was to leave this tiny apartment in Tokyo.
This has been my favourite place I’ve ever lived. The first home that has ever actually belonged to me. The first home where I have felt truly, and absolutely, free.
I will miss it very much.