Home is not a place. It’s your mum making tea for you in the morning, your dad ironing your oxford shirts and hanging them on the outside of your doorknob—so as not to wake you up, fresh fruit constantly available because parents just remember to buy it, your keys on the hook in the pantry, patio lights going on without fail each night at 6 pm to remind you that even if no one is inside, someone will be there sometime to switch them off. Home is an embrace, a note on a post-it, your mother resigning to the fact that you smoke cigarettes because she just doesn’t give a damn anymore—you’re still hers, and you’ve both done your best. Home is home is home. I am grateful.
Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish.-Herman Hesse
This is why I struggle. I want to be a writer but it’s like a battle with the English language; it’s elating to have a beautiful idea or bout of inspiration and then so discouraging when you can’t succeed in translating it to text. sigh. SIGHHH