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THE VACANT HOUSE

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A vacant house, no one here but me, listening to the sounds it makes. The walls creak, the refrigerator goes off then on again. The distant hum of the washing machine, the slow and steady breathing of the house. In and out. In a way it is alive, and it comforts me. All the familiar sounds. Even the crazy neighbors that play spanish music till all hours in the morning and the loud mufflers and sterios with the bass cranked all the way up in the cars that pass in the street. They don’t bother me, they just come together with everything else, the sounds of home. Home is a place that should be right in your mind. To come home is to live. The smell of left over smoke and chicken that was cooked in the ancient oven, the taste of those also. The touch of the dent in the couch where I always sit. It envelops me as it should. The undersized TV that only I know how to make work. And the laptop keys that fall naturally underneath my fingers. Everything in its place, home. It cannot be home to anyone else, just me. My own little sanctuary. Where I stay up late writing and taking pictures, pouring my heart out for all to see and read. This is where I stay, listening, feeling, smelling, touching, hearing, and seeing. I close my eyes and I am home.
Current Music:
Explosions In The Sky
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