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050806
I have always wanted to live in an RV. As this desire dates back to early childhood, it has been suppressed, closeted away with dreams of being able to build a pond in my backyard or having my own personal water tower. While waiting on the Gyro man to cook my lamb today, however, I looked upon his cart and was reminded of my lifelong wish to abide in a world where everything has a dictated place-deep fryer here, salad box there, griddle here, hot sauce drawer there.
If I had an RV, I don't know that I would ever drive it. I've never pictured myself going anywhere in one, per se; I've only ever imagined the sheer bliss of order that lies inside: the benches that turn to beds in front of picture windows, the handy stove and tiny oven, the shower that's a sink and a toilet all at one time. Yet if I did decide to travel, therein would be the wonder of space within space, the beautiful fact that, anywhere I decided to go, there my home would be. I would be surrounded by everything familiar, always. If I did not like what was going on outside of my home, I could stay inside, and while inside, I could physically leave behind whatever had troubled me.
I don't care about electricity. I don't mind squatting in the woods. Personal hygiene is not important to me. I don't want to escape from the outside. I'd just like to be able to choose for myself when to let it in.
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