Found this on my old blog. This was written and posted in 2003.
I know things have gotten really tough for me when I feel the urge to walk to my living room and stare out the window in the middle of the night.
And when this happens, I’d just stand there, looking out. There really isn’t much to see. Old houses, distant buildings, the occasional truck or car passing by. But it does so much for me.
When I feel that I’ve calmed down, I begin my walk back to my room, usually on bare feet. On my way there, I run my hands across the wooden walls. I use my fingers to trace the pillars I used to play with as a child. I drink in the soft lights that make our living room glow. I move the artworks aside and feel the imprints my great-uncle left on the wall when he used to measure me and my brother regularly to check how much we were growing. This house holds so many secrets, so many memories. All these things make our house beautiful, this house that my grandfather had built for us.
Maybe it’s not looking out the window that helps. Maybe knowing that I’m inside does.
Funny how rereading it made me feel as if I was inside my old house again. But I’m not. And I will never be.
I was inside it. Now it’s inside me.