There is no perfect place, or space that speaks to all insides. But there are places, which in moments lie unmarked by mystery; that, serving emotion or experience, fit full with life. They are not always the expected areas, but life nooks, not neat but naughtily unique.
It is strange that upon returning home one of those very places constantly occupies my mind; and it is not a place in this city of mine. It is where wind chimes sat above lady faces, couches lay perpendicular to the sun, my books tampered and torn in my lap. It fits strangely now, as it was one of the hardest times, but raw in a way that I am missing, so hotly honest, so opposite of hollow. I would wake there in night sweats, position myself close to the fan, and then wake again at dawn in the grasping glow of morning.
When I think of it now I want back, I miss that summer smell, the roar of colors set in plaster and plastic on the walls. It reminds how we are made of memory and how mine, however set in shards, murmurs noisily with nostalgia.
