As a generation, we’ve wandered voluntarily more than any other in recent times, dispatched our bodies to the farthest corners of the earth and carabined even deeper into depths of our souls, seeking, craving, and attempting to fill up that a hole we can’t quite identify or express why it exists. For most of us, we only acknowledge that it does.

In literature, music, film, we’ve pondered the meaning of home, the lack of home, the need for home. We’ve documented the search. Filling up our passports and putting the miles on…

Why does my generation have this seemingly ubiquitously drive to search for home? And for those who have found it, turns out, home isn’t a place, it’s a person, a feeling, a town, but rarely a structure. For many of us, it’s a community we’ve made for ourselves, not necessarily one close to family, but made up of people with whom we are closer than our kin.

We post photographs of ourself doing the mundane, the exotic, showing old school skills. Childless, making babies, working long hours, slacking off, we broadcast our life… to show each other our lives, the home we’ve created, if only in a moment, in which we find ourselves more ourselves than normal.

We post about what we’ve achieved, what we’re up against, and typically, repost articles to remind each other of our NPR obsession.

Slaid Cleaves- Below.  This video chronicles the flooding of Flagstaff and Dead River in Maine in the 1940’s.

James’ Five O.  I’ve been looking for truth at the cost of living. Every answer found begs another question…If it lasts forever, I hope I’m the first to die.

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