I would dearly like to linger here.
Home, that is.
People are quite fond of saying “home is where the heart is,” but I find my heart always being dragged along wherever the rest of my body goes. Oh, if only I could I would often leave my feelings behind, tucked safely away under the pillow of my bed, instead of lugging them about hither and yon, snagging them on this and that, leaving bloody messes wherever I and my troublesome heart roam…
But that is neither here nor there, I suppose. Nothing to be done about it anyways.
Besides, perhaps a writer’s heart needs a spot of scrappiness, a bit more wear and tear on it than most to create something truly good and lasting and worthy?
That’s a fool’s hope, I imagine, but one I will keep.