I walk into my home, and I feel a wave of comfort. I put my laptop bag down; it is there in the morning. I look at my clock; it is 9:17pm. I know where I am. I take my jacket off and place it on my coat rack. I glance at a framed piece of scripture a friend made me long ago. It is still there; I feel safe. I take off my shoes.
The government knows how to reach me. A wedding announcement arrives in the mail; I am assured it has not missed me.
I sit down at my computer.
These comforts do not exist on the Internet. We have no digital home. If I load up my Facebook profile, I see a list of friends, but they are not permanent. I have no control over them; in an instant, they could disappear without recourse.
Digitally, I am living in a hotel. Rented space. I can't change the furniture, the furnishing are not mine, if I drink the water it costs me $6.00 per bottle.
It is peaceful in a sterilized, ephemeral way. The next day, I will be gone, and the cleaners will wipe any trace of my existence.
What does it take to build a home? A lot of work. From scratch, you must learn foundations, framing, electrical wiring, plumbing, drywall, roofing, and then eventually the affectations of homewarming. You must become a legal scholar in land property management, an architect of intimate spaces that promote healthy life, a policy advocate of eminent domain case law.
All of this is worth it, to have your own space.
In 2002, a site called Myspace was launched, promising you your own space. It was a lie, and it failed. This was the Eeyore Era of home-building, and we haven't progressed much since then.
I'd like to build something better.