ticktock, time's almost up.
Four days left before we leave. The thing about leaving home isn't that I will miss it - it's that some little part of me is always idly wondering: what if we never come back? It's foolish, sure, to be considering these thoughts at all (because what's the use of them, what good do they bring?), but there they are anyway.
The thing about leaving home, on the bright side, is that every time I return to it I realize more and more just what makes it what it is. Because no matter how long I am gone or how far I away I travel, when I see my bed, it is always what is has always been and I can sink into it, lie down and sleep contentedly for however long I wish.
When I come home, no matter how much I've pined for its warmth or idly wished I'd never have to go back to it's heat, I feel like I've never left. That counts for a lot, doesn't it? That feeling of familiarity; that knowledge that you'll always have somewhere to go back to when you're tired.
Four days and ticking off. How much can we squeeze into the little that we own?
The thing about leaving home, on the bright side, is that every time I return to it I realize more and more just what makes it what it is. Because no matter how long I am gone or how far I away I travel, when I see my bed, it is always what is has always been and I can sink into it, lie down and sleep contentedly for however long I wish.
When I come home, no matter how much I've pined for its warmth or idly wished I'd never have to go back to it's heat, I feel like I've never left. That counts for a lot, doesn't it? That feeling of familiarity; that knowledge that you'll always have somewhere to go back to when you're tired.
Four days and ticking off. How much can we squeeze into the little that we own?