I believe in home.
I love shelter from rain, air conditioning, and electrical outlets. I delight in running water, and the enclosed coziness of my painted walls. The best part of a long day is shutting the front door behind me and letting everything I hold fall to the floor. But best of all, I like the raw feel of carpet bristle between my bare toes.
This is a sentiment that has taken years to develop. As a child, differentiation between the ease of home and the outside world was minimal. There was no structure, no expectations of decorum. Stress was in the form of getting to the swing set first. But life has a knack for progressing and before I knew it, I’m spending more time outside my house than inside. School, work, friends, parties, errands…
It took the constant barrage of activities for me to finally see the value of home, of time away from public space. As soon as I learned to appreciate my personal sphere of comfort, I learned to put time in my schedule for it. I began to see the necessity of home. I work for money. I go to school to learn. I socialize and hang out with friends to keep up friendships and make new ones. To be able to do all of that, I go home.
I believe in home because it sees me at my liveliest and sickest days. It gives me a good night’s sleep and prepares me for another day outside its walls. Outside, I put on a face, I dress for occasions. I act to join others in a collective rhythm. Inside, the beat is entirely up to me. Home acts as my fueling station between bouts in a stressful world.
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