Home is where Heart is... Yeah Right.
Home is where the heart is
Home is where you live.
Home is with the people you love.
Home is where the heart is…
Home is not a term I use often.
When I think about it now I realize I don’t know where my true home is. The house I live in accommodates my malevolence older brother, up tight father, sensitive mum and me.
I don’t call the place I live in home.
My room is my identifiable area. With its cream colored walls, smooth carpeting with familiar spilt ink spots, mahogany door with the swirly patterns and my possessions strewn across the ground or hiding away for my use only.
Sometimes I daydream about moving into a new house, it would be enjoyable to be in a new environment; waking up and realizing half a second later that you’re in a whole new place. I must admit though, my room would probably be the only thing I missed. But I’m not moving anytime soon.
I like to detach myself when I get to the house.
Letting my bag slide off my shoulder and onto the floor, I gather my things inside and head for my room. I place my iPod into its holder for safe keeping, drop my books on the rug then begin to read on the bed, not a word to anyone except the polite hello to my parents. Sometimes I would tuck my knees under my chin and lean on the wall, staring into space for how ever many minutes just to take in the peaceful, comfortable isolation.
My room is probably the only place I can be myself, no worries, pressure or high expectations. I can easily turn my iPod to earsplitting volume to drown out the world and you could say my window was my exclusive front door. It’s nice, if I wanted to put it bluntly.
Each item in my room, whether it be clothing, stationary or toys, there are all apart of my room, apart of me, without them it wouldn’t be the same.
Because I like my stationary all over the floor, I like my bed covers messy, I like my books in every corner of the room because silly enough it makes me contented. They all plainly stated that no matter how much I cried or screamed or simply kept quiet they wouldn’t judge me. I know that sounds childish but that’s how it is. My room is my room and I don’t want to change anything about it.
I am leaning against my pillows, laptop in front of me; my fingers hover hesitantly above the keys before I get an idea. Then I begin to type.
The words pour out easily once I get started, as always. Each and every one of my feelings are put into the letters forming instantaneously before my eyes, my fingers moving as fast as the words popping into my head.
I was given an assignment to write about home, or at least to incorporate home into my short story. I was confused and worried, not sure what I was going to write about and how I was going to do that. I tried thinking about ideas as I walked back to class, but I knew they weren’t going to work.
But once I finally get in front of my laptop, the plan hits me.
I am sitting here writing a short story about home, it might not be a short story but its close enough for me. At the ending I realize something.
I feel at home when I’m tranquil in my room.
Home is where you live.
Home is with the people you love.
Home is where the heart is…
I begged a differ.
Home is with the people you love.
Home is where the heart is…
Home is not a term I use often.
When I think about it now I realize I don’t know where my true home is. The house I live in accommodates my malevolence older brother, up tight father, sensitive mum and me.
I don’t call the place I live in home.
My room is my identifiable area. With its cream colored walls, smooth carpeting with familiar spilt ink spots, mahogany door with the swirly patterns and my possessions strewn across the ground or hiding away for my use only.
Sometimes I daydream about moving into a new house, it would be enjoyable to be in a new environment; waking up and realizing half a second later that you’re in a whole new place. I must admit though, my room would probably be the only thing I missed. But I’m not moving anytime soon.
I like to detach myself when I get to the house.
Letting my bag slide off my shoulder and onto the floor, I gather my things inside and head for my room. I place my iPod into its holder for safe keeping, drop my books on the rug then begin to read on the bed, not a word to anyone except the polite hello to my parents. Sometimes I would tuck my knees under my chin and lean on the wall, staring into space for how ever many minutes just to take in the peaceful, comfortable isolation.
My room is probably the only place I can be myself, no worries, pressure or high expectations. I can easily turn my iPod to earsplitting volume to drown out the world and you could say my window was my exclusive front door. It’s nice, if I wanted to put it bluntly.
Each item in my room, whether it be clothing, stationary or toys, there are all apart of my room, apart of me, without them it wouldn’t be the same.
Because I like my stationary all over the floor, I like my bed covers messy, I like my books in every corner of the room because silly enough it makes me contented. They all plainly stated that no matter how much I cried or screamed or simply kept quiet they wouldn’t judge me. I know that sounds childish but that’s how it is. My room is my room and I don’t want to change anything about it.
I am leaning against my pillows, laptop in front of me; my fingers hover hesitantly above the keys before I get an idea. Then I begin to type.
The words pour out easily once I get started, as always. Each and every one of my feelings are put into the letters forming instantaneously before my eyes, my fingers moving as fast as the words popping into my head.
I was given an assignment to write about home, or at least to incorporate home into my short story. I was confused and worried, not sure what I was going to write about and how I was going to do that. I tried thinking about ideas as I walked back to class, but I knew they weren’t going to work.
But once I finally get in front of my laptop, the plan hits me.
I am sitting here writing a short story about home, it might not be a short story but its close enough for me. At the ending I realize something.
I feel at home when I’m tranquil in my room.
Home is where you live.
Home is with the people you love.
Home is where the heart is…
I begged a differ.