The place where you belong. . . ?

,,TIME IS A SCARCE STUFF.”


path

Those days when you’re feeling kinda alone.

When you are home all by yourself.

Nobody ⇔ nowhere.

Walking around the place I am supposed to call home, stepping inside of every single room and looking around…reminiscing a few years back, this particular room I am in right now,  was my bedroom, now I live the “next door”.
I was sharing room with my older brother till me being 10 or 12 (?) and him being 15 or 17…hard to know, when you are a person who doesn’t really remember what she had for lunch yesterday. Then, pardon me.
Anyway, I was just stepping inside of the dark room and listening to a silent ticking of the old watch we have for forever. Sitting on a couch, which was bought when they were still together. Seeing so many pictures in my head right now. Him sleeping on the couch, eating peanuts – then switch – us having 16 Christmas in a row – switch – watching TV together – switch – playing cards….switch, switch, switch.
Can’t say that I miss him here, I am too old for that (at least too old to admit it), but still, those are memories and sometimes you miss memories more than the person.
That was the time I wasn’t really seeing the whole truth, honestly I didn’t care (why would I), but there comes an ability to “see and hear” with the proper age.

It all sometimes makes me feel kinda anxious, with a necessity to get the hell out of here for a few days (as I did), but as you know, you are always glad to come home with a feeling that this is your place, a place where you belong even if you don’t admit that in front of yourself sometimes.

You always come back, because as much as I want that, you want to belong somewhere, and don’t say I’m not right, when you know that I am. Everybody wants that. Nobody wants to stay all alone, by herself, in a lonely apartment a few days in a row.

Then, you surely know what to do.

N.

P.s: Even if it’s partly cracked like the path on the photo, but you are still able to fix it. It’s all about your attitude.

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