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A Place to Call My Own II

Everyone should have a place to (pardon the pun) call there own. An ancient mechanism of the human mind that dictates possession, hearkening back to a time when man had to scrounge for roots and berries and hunt for food. "Mine" was a survival tactic.

But we must realize that civilization is now able to move beyond the "mine" mentality when it comes to food and survival. Thus, evolution in the human psyche manifests personal possession a vestigial impulse. It is no longer necessary, in the most highly advanced parts of our society, to maintain this impulse because these lucky people don't have to worry about finding food or true survival in it's original sense.

(The evolution of man is all around us. Yet because it happens so slowly, and so progressively, that we rarely realize it for what it is.)

In this case, we have two choices. Either we scrap the idea of personal property or we reassign the impulse to something else. It is the latter that I believe best for the continued success of man, at least in the short run. We must find a new thing to possess. It was survival. It was other people. It was property. It was gold and riches. But now?

We all need a place to call our own. Something to possess in the truest sense of the word. Something that is ours and no one else's and most importantly something that when owned completely isn't detrimented or harmed by it. I seek a different kind of possession. Land costs money and, really, you never get exactly what you want. Either you can't afford that "perfect" house in that "perfect" little town or city, the neighborhood goes sour, or some other injustice befalls your dreams.

My ideal possession is not property, or gold, or riches, or titles, or people. It is this right here. My mind. My words. Myself. Of course people can drop by from time to time, sign the guest book, call me and leave a message, it's all possible. And it's free. It's also whatever I make it. It is always perfect, because just as my idea of ideal changes, it changes.

What is the difference between a house and a home but the memories held within? What is the place I call my own but the ideas and words that I put it in? Nothing. And mine, free thought, is free.

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