Coming Home

It's always that familiar smell of home that reminds me I've been away, perhaps for too long. Its the photos in the hall, and the characteristic disarray that underestimates the degree of apathetic neglect that occurs here. It's strange to think that this one place holds my entire life history, like layers of rock, fossilized remains of journals, tapes, and words, scribbled on the end of a doodle, a faint emotion I can almost still feel. There is one word that comes to mind for a place like this: residual. It's no longer applicable.

What a strange way to begin the new year. Feeling like I no longer apply.