I thought living alone would be the hardest thing I ever did.
The first time I tried was a disaster. Despite that house being etched into my soul, it still was not a part of the fabric of me and built entirely of safety
This house is a framework of trust. A coat of hope on the walls (such a soothing moss green).
Sunlight pours in with ease.
The kitchen is a perfect dream of space and honey-colored love.
The woods and cemetery in my backyard would probably concern most. But to my skewed sense of comfort, it’s perfect. Quiet, serene, and lonely. Just like I am. I’m rarely surprised by random passerby’s.
I do fracture regularly still. But the pieces of me all have comforting sections of the house.
There’s a small room under the stairs that only handful of people know exist (yes, like Harry Potter). A safe space to hide when the demons seem too strong and close.
The kitchen is another favorite, with a window seat right across from the long counter. Huge windows that easily slide open to let in air. Enough space for me to lie on my stomach, and even have Zoe join me.
Then there’s the balcony. Breezy, semi-private, and perfect to lounge on for hours.
Perhaps I can get this dang book put together finally. With a little help from this precious house that’s wormed its way into my heart and soul.
pen, paper, and crazy 