I awoke from an old dream last evening as the sun kissed the sky and rain came pouring in across the room. I am captured in time, of no major importance save that of time itself formed at the beginning of time save that of the mystic sea from whence we came.
“It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realized what’s changed is you.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald
In reality, the house was rather small. But it’s enormous in accordance with the memories of my youth as it was the first house I actually remember calling home. Things always seem bigger and grander when the past is taken in by reminiscence under the disguise of myth.
“All things on earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travelers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.” […]