'A house is not a home' is particularly true in my neighborhood, where developers are demolishing old, shingled Victorians and building functional boxes instead. These new constructions are two bedroom hamster cages where the inhabitants subsist rather than live; spaces designed for binge-watching Netflix and doom-scrolling through social media. It seems we have expanded the concept of TV Dinners into total Flat Screen Residential Existence. Le Corbusier's Machine for Living has become a CPAP Machine for Living. We are more concerned with streaming platforms on our devices than books in our bookcases. The family room is now an area where directionless individuals impersonate the vegetable of their choice until bedtime.
Sometimes, when walking the dog down my street, I see someone staring out of a window with a worried expression on their face. I used to know who lived in that house when it was a home. But now I have no idea who those anxious features belong to. Could be anyone who wears the domestic uniform of sweatpants and hoodie. The previous owner was a hoarder. I remember it took at least a week for the local sanitation team to empty all the worthless bric-a-brac collected inside. The new owner also appears to be hoarder. Except they hoard neuroses not personal possessions. Perhaps one day, when they have no more shows to watch on TV, they will snap and run outside shooting at whatever crosses their path. But I hope to have moved to the seaside by then. That's the plan, anyway.