My home has become a sort of a hermitage, a random point of stasis among a bustling sea of shops, restaurants, and life. That’s not to say that it is some sort of poustinia, with only the bare essentials for survival, or a weird variant of asceticism, meant to attain some form spiritual peace. Rather, the whirlwind of my life has deceived me into believing that the only point of calm lies at the location in which each day of mine is born and dies; my home. As my daily focus shifts from my immediate surroundings to points within my state, to points in an imagined world created by technology, I somehow have blinded myself to the fact that I have settled in the midst of much of what comforts me most in this world. Worn books, elusive records, intriguing people, comforting flavors- the very things that I have filled my home with and surrounded myself with for the better part of my life, exist outside of this apartment in the most obvious display that I have been entirely oblivious to. Admittedly, it is with some measure of anxiety that I can say that my neighborhood is not just a spatial reference to mark a voting district, a demographic sampling, or a measurement in which to designate the allocation of resources; my neighborhood is a reflection of much of what comforts me in life, and in the time that I have lived here, I have squandered the opportunity to explore that.
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