My “one true home” is not what you would expect. There are no beautiful flowers to gaze at or an overstuffed, silk upholstered chair for me to fall into after a long day. There is not a soft bed or a warm bath waiting for me. No hot meal is displayed on a shiny, dining room table. There are no windows to look out of and no view of any kind, but this room has a beautiful view that changes everyday.
My “room” is a garage and it is the most special place to me. The fluorescent light is harsh with an unforgiving flicker that makes the whole room seem to twitch. As I look at the ground, I see the remnants of dead cockroaches in the corners of the room. Transmission fluid and engine oil coat the concrete floor of my paradise. A trash can sits idly by with refuse from the past few nights. There is no air conditioning or windows. The heat can become oppressive and yet I breath easy.
Against a side wall are paint splattered drop cloths. In the center of the drop cloth, lying flat on the ground is a blank canvas. Next to the canvas are my paints. When I touch them, I am transported. Within the blank canvas lies infinite potential. No longer am I aware that I'm in the garage. I'm not aware that I'm kneeling on the cold hard concrete. I'm not aware of the oppressive heat or of the passage of time. Instead, I see a kind face from earlier in the day or the hills above H.P.A or, a place I have not yet been and still have yet to go.