I have learned this at least by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavours to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.
Henry David Thoreau
I’m home. How nice.
I was at my wits end last week and I decided to take a very long weekend and go home.
Going home is like a warm fuzzy blanket. Comforting. Home is my sanctuary. Coming home is coming back to a whole different world. It’s as if the world outside doesn’t exist. Where time slows down, and everything moves at a leisurely pace. You have all the time in the world to do everything you want, live how you want, relax and generally take things as they come.
Make no mistake, coming home to me is coming home to housework, loads of it. There’s no one here, I’m all by myself, the house is a mess, I LOVE IT! Coming home is coming back to all the memories that this house evokes, some good, some not so good (even though time makes them all good!). Coming home to the memories of my parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins, nephews and nieces, friends and foes. Man, my house does house a lot of memories.
I remembered the poem “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”, by W.B. Yeats. In that poem he heard the sound of Innisfree in his deep heart’s core, I hear the call of my home in mine.
Home. Bittersweet, comfort, anytime. It’s nice pretending the outside world didn’t exist for a while.
I was at my wits end last week and I decided to take a very long weekend and go home.Going home is like a warm fuzzy blanket. Comforting. Home is my sanctuary. Coming home is coming back to a whole different world. It’s as if the world outside doesn’t exist. Where time slows down, and everything moves at a leisurely pace. You have all the time in the world to do everything you want, live how you want, relax and generally take things as they come.
Make no mistake, coming home to me is coming home to housework, loads of it. There’s no one here, I’m all by myself, the house is a mess, I LOVE IT! Coming home is coming back to all the memories that this house evokes, some good, some not so good (even though time makes them all good!). Coming home to the memories of my parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins, nephews and nieces, friends and foes. Man, my house does house a lot of memories.
I remembered the poem “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”, by W.B. Yeats. In that poem he heard the sound of Innisfree in his deep heart’s core, I hear the call of my home in mine.
Home. Bittersweet, comfort, anytime. It’s nice pretending the outside world didn’t exist for a while.
P/S
I know it's not my usual cat picture, but I'm posting from somebody else's computer, so bear with me.
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