Home from home

I'm sitting staring at the darkness that surrounds the square light of my laptop.
It's just black, but a familiar black.
If the only light went out, I could find the door or the pen lying next to my bookshelf.
It's the same darkness I've stared at for so many years.
Sitting on the same bed in the same room.
Walking down the same hallways and stairs.
Pacing up and down the same driveway on the phone at night.
Looking through the same branches from the same tree to see the same stars.
Driving the same roads to the same places time and again.
I'm always running away, but I'm never getting anywhere.
Always somewhere new, but I never stay.
New roads, new skylines, new people and new bridges.
All fleeting and left behind to return to familiarity.
I want to drive away and watch the scenery behind me fall apart.
Watch it deconstructed like a movie set.
The places I once knew reduced to open space with no trace of home.
I want to cross over that bridge once more and see it fall into the river.
Could I stay away?
Would I drive on and make a new life in a new place?
Or would I rebuild the bridge and put back up the town just how I knew it?
What is home?
Can it be reduced to a single dwelling or a collection of streets and well-known sights?
Could it be just a feeling, with no permanent locale?
Perhaps it's different for everyone, but I'm ready to find out how far I can take this home.