Dear Diary
Home.
The Begma trip was brilliant. Enjoyable (with the uncomfortable exception of my first experience with MiniSafe, of course), full of the delights and wonders of Begma, and relatively successful.
We've returned and shortly found the shop full to bursting with friends come for the Nigelmas celebration. Where I've been. And where I should be. But talk turned, briefly though it was, to home, which for most of them means Begma. Home is more complicated for me. I've come up here with a tumbler of gin, a pack of cigs, and this journal to look out at the shiplights in the harbor (though there's nowhere near the numbers there used to be, these days) and try to catch a whiff of sea air. With the sounds of revelry below, I'm finding myself pining for a home that doesn't really exist for me anymore.
This is my home. Here. No. 18, Ironmonger's, Amber City. It's enough. More than enough. But once in a while, in those rare times when for some vague reason I feel almost an outsider here, something that was once home calls to me.
I should get back to the others and to the celebrating, but the lights are so beautiful out on the water, and I think I can smell salt when the wind blows just right.
The Begma trip was brilliant. Enjoyable (with the uncomfortable exception of my first experience with MiniSafe, of course), full of the delights and wonders of Begma, and relatively successful.
We've returned and shortly found the shop full to bursting with friends come for the Nigelmas celebration. Where I've been. And where I should be. But talk turned, briefly though it was, to home, which for most of them means Begma. Home is more complicated for me. I've come up here with a tumbler of gin, a pack of cigs, and this journal to look out at the shiplights in the harbor (though there's nowhere near the numbers there used to be, these days) and try to catch a whiff of sea air. With the sounds of revelry below, I'm finding myself pining for a home that doesn't really exist for me anymore.
This is my home. Here. No. 18, Ironmonger's, Amber City. It's enough. More than enough. But once in a while, in those rare times when for some vague reason I feel almost an outsider here, something that was once home calls to me.
I should get back to the others and to the celebrating, but the lights are so beautiful out on the water, and I think I can smell salt when the wind blows just right.