Transience

tran·si·ence (trnz-ns, zhns, -shns): The state or quality of being transient.

I realized the other day that I am approaching a milestone that I have not achieved in over 10 years. I will have resided in my little studio flat, with its white walls and hardwood floors, terrible burgundy blinds and its noises, its smells, its adventures, for 2 years this September. It is the longest I have lived anywhere for a very long time.

I never did paint the walls, or unpack all the boxes. But there are prints on the walls, bookcases stuffed full, clothes hanging in the closet. I have made love in this flat, cooked meals and laughed with friends in its cramped kitchen, consoled and counselled, changed jobs. Woken up with the sun streaming through the crooked blinds and been happy in this space, and stretched myself out on the sofa with heartbreak and whisky.

I have sometimes longed for the comfort of those white walls while I have been far away, but it has never been anything more than functional. A place to lay my head, to store my clothes, to escape. I realize how deep transience has taken hold, and I often wonder if I will ever feel just so, just right in one place or if I will always be searching for that next safe space? Or is it just as simple as finding comfort in your own heart?