Monday, August 16, 2010


This is actually one of my pictures. I don't know how to do anything "cool" with it, nor have supplies to do anything cool with it, so it can just stay this way.

All I can think of is the word "home." Maybe it's just me being away, for so long, that this word gives me more comfort than "the place I normally live" [in which the two are entirely seperate].

Home, to me, is where the sun seems to rise at the time in the morning it should, and give way to the moon upon the approach of the stars in the clear sky.
Home, to me, is the feeling in my heart where everything is at peace with the world, or bliss that runs far like the smell of fresh flowers.
Home, to me, was pushing off the leafy ground and falling up into the bird egg-colored sky, soaring through the air high above all the happy people.
Home, to me, is the feel of sweet Malone's taffy melting in my mouth, or DiMaggio's secret-cheese pizza.
Home, to me, is the early mornings I sometimes spend with my Grandma out on the front porch, watching the sun rise as we drank orange juice and coffee.
Home, to me, is whenever I'm one of the numerous people that care about me.
Home, to me, is the collection of all the old songs on my iPod that bring me back to days spent under oak trees and on playgrounds.
Home, to me, was the traditional Valentine-giving we all had as youths.
Home, to me, is not the doorway, but the escape, from all the panic and escape of life away from home.

Too bad "home" for me is settled four hours away.


It doesn't relate, but try out Into Your Arms by The Maine. It's addictive stuff.

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