I lived rough, by my wits, was homeless, lived on the streets, lived on friends’ floors, was happy, was miserable.

—Ben Okri

As of yesterday, August 21, 2012, at 1:00pm EST, I officially became homeless.

Not in the sense that I had nowhere to go. I don’t want to be misleading; I’m extremely fortunate, and there is no danger of me not having a roof over my head any time in the foreseeable future.

But I no longer have a place I call “home”.

Yesterday I turned in my keys to my landlord, and officially moved out of the apartment I have resided in for the last year. A friend adopted me for the night and got me to the train station this morning. At that point, I said goodbye to Buffalo, probably for the last time. The next time I enter the city, it will be as a visitor, not a resident.

I’m being really over-dramatic about this, but it’s a new sensation for me. I’ve always had a “home”—a base, a center for my life. Somewhere to return to. When I was a kid, it was my parents’ house, where I was part of the schedule, part of the routine. When I went away to college, my dorm room became my home. Finally, I moved into my own apartment in Buffalo.

Now I don’t have a place like that. I’m staying in my parents’ house for as long as it takes for me to get the money together to move out to San Francisco. My apartment there will become my home then. And while my parents are ecstatic to have me home (I’ll be the first child of theirs to move more than a six hour drive away, and they’re not nearly as excited about the move as I am), I’m not part of the routine here. I’m a visitor.

It’s going to be an interesting couple of months, but I’m very excited to be moving to San Francisco. I love the city, I love my job there, and I’m really happy I’m going to, for the first time ever, live in a place that has a season besides “winter”.

And hey, if anyone knows of any great apartments in walking distance of Potrero for reasonable prices, do let me know.