I had always felt a home was a home based on the interior and the memories stuffed in the walls, but tonight when I was helping bring in groceries I paused. There are steps outside my vine covered house, and when I stood at the bottom of them, trees blocking out moonlight and splattering shades of black on the exterior of the house, I felt no relationship with it. I did not feel connected with its memories, its essence, it was not a part of the inside of my home. In that moment I realized how my life inside had created its own wind, waves, and wonder that solely belonged outdoors. I realized as I stepped up the steps and finally stood on the porch while looking down the street that there was wind in my face, and there were leaves on the ground, and how wide and big the world was. I realized how pictures showed nothing, movies showed nothing, and how there was nothing to compare to the vastness of outdoors. Outdoors, I can look at the sky and forget what lay around me, and imagine myself elsewhere, and it wouldn't be that hard to do. The roof prevents that. The indoors prevent that. There is a world, and home, that's not in a certain amount of square foot that require you to pay each month to keep it. I realize there's a home just on Earth. And I realized, that if I were “homeless”, it wouldn't be that bad. Because I would only be without shelter, not somewhere I belong.