This place is perfect.
It has the dim, yellow lighting that reminds me of my grandparents livingroom and the smell.
Maybe it's because I'm a sensory person.
As if all people aren't sensory. .
But the smell of books, especially old, semi-moldy and water-dammaged books is home.
You know what else is home?
The ocean is home.
The sound of the "swoosh" as the waves hit the sand, the salty, tangy taste on the tip of your tongue and the crevices of your lips- that's home.
Poetry is home, as well.
Today I listened to a podcast that had been hiding in my iPhone. It was called "Caseworker" and was by a man named Bluz.
That poem has been ringing in my ears since I first played it, listening absent mindedly as I uploaded songs onto iTunes.
Then I heard a phrase that caught my ear, "I want to be 'I love you', Mr. Caseworker."
I want to be 'I love you'.
So, I listened again. And again. And for a few hours, actually.
Home is a hug. I don't get many of those that often, especially now that I'm farther from my friends than I usually am, and I miss my home.
Willie's coming over on Saturday so we can go to a foam dance and slide down a 45 foot slip & slide.
Lately, home has been the little things too, like a cup of steaming hot rasberry zinger tea that reminds me of Federal Way, or the post-it's with witty sayings on them.
Love, man. Love.
Don't forget it. Don't take it for granted. It's what life's made of, at it's rawest state.
"I want to be 'I love you', Mr. Caseworker."