I always thought that" home "was the place where I wake up every day, where I never find things like where I leave and enter stumble to the bathroom on time means on the plug of the dryer (which, I swear, it magically turns only).
"Home" was my father before the game, my brothers in front of Call of Duty, my sister who is chasing the my mother dog and splashing in front of all this evil.
"home" meant to respect the traditions and do not mess with Grandma NEVER required "too libertine" ( "Otherwise, who ever marry you? You do not want to be sent back from your husband? ". ... If I were a parcel)
" Home "was my boyfriend, who after many years spent together can not even remember why you are more in love with me.
have always been convinced that "home" was this.
But it took was a sentence from the movie "My Life as a Garden State" with Zach Braff, to let the principle of reflection from which I can not get out if not with a broken heart. Even worse is the fact andarmi to collide with reality now, a few days before Christmas that once felt vibrating in my veins.
"You know, when you get to that point in your life in when you realize that the house you grew up is no longer your home ... Suddenly, even if you have a place to put your stuff, the idea of \u200b\u200bhome no longer exists ... How to get homesick for a place that does not even exist. Perhaps a family is just that, a group of people who have nostalgia for an imaginary place. "
It hurts, but it is. I feel much more comfortable as they are far from my house, and slam against consideration that the house could be anything right now.
"House" are those friends who never forsake you, that even when you did a shit as big as the Taj Mahal does not judge you, but recommend that prevent you to cancel a man and say that you are beautiful but when you feel lousy.
"Home" is my city, and the scent of wet asphalt, its shortcuts, the streets deserted at night and the bar where you'll always know who you will meet (for better or worse) because they actually live in Bucocity.
"House" is the time that the cold air makes his joints creak in the old palaces of the sixteenth-century old town, which is unforgiving if you're wasp that makes you curse in Aramaic against anyone who steals an umbrella outside a shop.
"Home" are my books, my music, my films and my show, art forms that can make me live in a daydream, and with whom I have learned to grow myself.
"Home" was my father before the game, my brothers in front of Call of Duty, my sister who is chasing the my mother dog and splashing in front of all this evil.
"home" meant to respect the traditions and do not mess with Grandma NEVER required "too libertine" ( "Otherwise, who ever marry you? You do not want to be sent back from your husband? ". ... If I were a parcel)
" Home "was my boyfriend, who after many years spent together can not even remember why you are more in love with me.
have always been convinced that "home" was this.
But it took was a sentence from the movie "My Life as a Garden State" with Zach Braff, to let the principle of reflection from which I can not get out if not with a broken heart. Even worse is the fact andarmi to collide with reality now, a few days before Christmas that once felt vibrating in my veins.
"You know, when you get to that point in your life in when you realize that the house you grew up is no longer your home ... Suddenly, even if you have a place to put your stuff, the idea of \u200b\u200bhome no longer exists ... How to get homesick for a place that does not even exist. Perhaps a family is just that, a group of people who have nostalgia for an imaginary place. "
It hurts, but it is. I feel much more comfortable as they are far from my house, and slam against consideration that the house could be anything right now.
"House" are those friends who never forsake you, that even when you did a shit as big as the Taj Mahal does not judge you, but recommend that prevent you to cancel a man and say that you are beautiful but when you feel lousy.
"Home" is my city, and the scent of wet asphalt, its shortcuts, the streets deserted at night and the bar where you'll always know who you will meet (for better or worse) because they actually live in Bucocity.
"House" is the time that the cold air makes his joints creak in the old palaces of the sixteenth-century old town, which is unforgiving if you're wasp that makes you curse in Aramaic against anyone who steals an umbrella outside a shop.
"Home" are my books, my music, my films and my show, art forms that can make me live in a daydream, and with whom I have learned to grow myself.
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