Kleptomaniac

This photograph irks me a little. That boy is named Jeremy and he is one of my dearest friends. He is as close to an older brother as I've ever had. The camera he's holding is probably stolen. When I was fifteen I found out that my good friend was a mild kleptomaniac. I made him promise that he wouldn't steal anything for at least fifteen years and I actually believed he'd keep his promise. About a years after my naive request, I discovered from a mutual friend that Jeremy had moved on from nicking the odd chocolate bar in convenient stores to stealing phones and cameras and other such things. I was so disapointed. It's been a while so I'm more vaguely amused than anything, especially since I know he's finally stopped, but the slight tinge of disapointment still managed to make an appearance.

There is a cookie box on the top of those cupboards in the background. It held butter cookies, which are the nastiest biscuits known to man. It feels strange to find those details from a long time ago and remember. Details can be so tangible.

Home

Home is an ambiguous concept. I can't decide if it is simply where one lives; a house, a tree, a K-mart, etc, or something closer to the phrase "Home is where the heart is." In that case, home doesn't even have to be a stationary place. Theoretically, it could also be a person or an object depending on an individuals priorities.
Right now I live in Suburbia in a hick town in California but I certainly don't feel at home. The physical location of where I live is beautiful. In another life I would make it my home in a heartbeat. I'm behind the Redwood curtain, surrounded by lush vegetation and dense forests, opening up only to the ocean. The topography of my "home" is one of those rare gems that never ceases to amaze. Unfortunately, the overall spirit of this town is not so pretty. Drugs and alcohol are ubiquitous and there is no one untouched by their destruction, the culture is the least friendly I've ever encountered, and an attitude of apathy has been adopted by the people.

I have never felt so isolated or detatched.

If home is where the heart is, then my home is ultimately in Heaven. But, perhaps in a more pressing nature, it is with the people I love most. Or maybe my home is a period of time. A year and a half ago I was happy. I still wait for that same bliss to find me again.

Home is what you make it.