Someone once said that a man's home is his castle. I can understand more and more what that can be taken to mean. In a feudal sense, the home contains his belongings and all the people loyal to him in the terms of his household, and it is the place to which he retreats when beset because it is a place of strength from which to mount a defense. During times of trial, it becomes a place where he is in control and where what he says holds sway.
Many people question why I live here. I felt very impressed that this is where I was supposed to live. I can think of a few reasons, but none of them are concrete and most of them are speculative, so I can understand all of those who suggest that I move elsewhere or at least move in with my friend. I could rent out this house for a goodly sum and hold it in reserve in case something changed and I needed my own place again. This house is after all not really a home. You buy a house, but you must make it a home, and home is made by the family that lives there.
What my house is for me is my freedom and my refuge. It is the only place on the planet where I am in control. Since there is nobody else here, everything that happens here is either confluence of forces that converge here or something that I dictated. I am the captain of this household, and everything is up to me and pleasing to me because there is nobody else here to muck it up. My house affords me the opportunity to do whatever I like. Here, if it is to be, it is up to me. I pay the price with either time or treasure. My decor is very masculine and looks more like a museum than a house. I leave a mess where I like and buy what I like and grow what I like. I'm transforming the back yard into a garden where I plan to beautify my own small spit of earth, that tiny feifdom God granted me in which to be king.
One of the reasons that I don't invite many people over or allow women in whom I am interested to hobnob with me unchaperoned here is to maintain this place as my own. An acquaintance of mine told me that he bought completely new furniture when his fiancee left him because he wanted furniture that had no memory ghosts of the woman he once loved. I don't have that issue; there are no shared memories or memory ghosts of people who no longer speak to me here because those people never crossed my threshold. Some of their things are here, but I have a closet and spare room in which to stow that swag until such time as I know what precisely to do with it.
At the end of a rough day, I retreat here. It lies far enough from my parents that they don't bother me but close enough that if I need help or vice versa we are available. It lies far enough from work that I can leave work behind and such that I have seen only two students while out shopping ever, and none of them bother me or stalk me or even suggest visiting me. It's my place, where I go and if need be drop right into bed without doing anything else when I get here because there's nobody here to demand my attention or action when I get home.
When the worries of the world mount, in my house, I am safe and free. My house is the place where I may do as I like when I like for no other reason than that I like. It is a place to which I may repair to recuperate and remonstrate. This is for me the real interpretation of the American dream- to have a place where I am free to be me all the time. This is my house. This is my castle. Here I am king. I have decided to stay as long as God tells me that it is prescient because everything that I control is under control here. In that way, I am living the dream. It isn't much, but it is mine, and I thank God for what I have.
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