Monday, March 23, 2015

Home




Home

Home ... it's where I am now, here where life has always been comfortable, without always being comforting.

Sure, my key fits the lock, turns the tumblers, and swings open the door. And, yes, the walls and the furniture are familiar in an instant, although I have to admit the Renoir print on the dining room wall looks much better than I ever expected.

Home ... it's where I am now, here where the soft silence quiets me and coaxes me to be comfortable with solitude.

There is always an ending, a place to land, a place to which I return, a place to find the tangible tokens and trinkets of a life — my life, my past, and soon, my end game — a place scattered with books, music, and movies, the comforts against loneliness, a place where I guess that I am expected to live, a place where I know that I am expected to die.

Home ... it's where I am now, but it's not where I belong, not my home in the truest sense of the word, because my true home is where solitude ends and a new life begins, a life in which I am more than one heart beating so courageously against the loneliness of this place where I live.
 














 
 


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