Oh to live by the seaside and the meadows on the other, to disappear from the noise of the city and drown in the noise of nature.
To watch the waves crash everyday with fury unlike what you've every seen. The lovers of all walks of life, walking hand in hand walk across the coastline, blinded by every ounce of affection they have for one an other. To see them smile the brightest of smiles like children after linking arms.
Where the meadows are darkened with overcast skies, ominous yet comforting and you with the brightest gleam in your eyes. Where the rumbling echoes across the lands. a sense of comfort washes over you, grounding you, telling you that you are here.
For nothing can disturb you, nothing can hurt you and most of all; you can be you.
Where the near by townsfolk only see a Spectre every time you come and go.
The old see you like a ghost of former lovers and friends.
The children watch you and fantasize about who you are. One whispers loudly "maybe a witch?" An other one screams "Or are they A wanderer?" A young girl yells "Ooooh A superhero?" And the oldest looking smirks and says "Possibly Or a madman?" As they all laugh while you pass by . The girl waves at you and then they wave and you wave back.
Yet there are some who are jealous of your reclusiveness, jealous of your hideaway, jealous of the peace you finally get to enjoy...
Some take comfort in your mystery and enjoy you wander into their quaint stores to rummage around the old, archaic and forgotten trinkets. To give them a new home, with a loving guardian.
All to be given a home in your study with the other forgotten memories of the many forgotten people of this world.
To finally give them a voice in your written works, or your journal, possibly your paintings. To make them visible to the forgetful.
The baker and librarian adore you for coming at exact intervals and you flash an oddly comforting smile, for they keep the oldest of books and freshest of baked goods for you. To others it's nothing, but to you even the gifts from the gods can never replace this kind of affection.
To hide away in your kitchen and, with the sound of the willows waving by your window. The rain comes crashing across the window sill where marks many a hot pan cooled during the year, as you breathe in the sweet sweet air that fills in the room.
The warmth by the fire place and the bone dry porch where you sip a hot cup of tea or coffee and watch everything just disappear in a hazy rain.
The rains show no signs of stopping, you smile and wonder whether it the anger of Poseidon towards Odysseus for the blinding of his son? Or the death of Zeus by Hera's hands?
Like the witch the children thought you were, you stir a large iron pot with a potion that would warm the insides of even a dragon. A hot, creamy soup with a fresh loaf of bread and a side of some warm rice that makes the soup into more of a porridge.
The crackling of the oak wood logs deafens the sound of the rain. While the softest of music plays away.
Finally you realise;
This is home.
This is what it means to be alive.
⚠️Credits to the people who took/made their respective pieces, they are not mine⚠️
