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This is what it could look like when one completely deconstructs a life as one knows it, and how to build from the ground up. Alternatively, this is a fresh look at an old story. The fine art of falling apart.

Come back home...for another year

I have that Pete Yorn song stuck in my head. Probably because I'm leaving home. Again. Never feels like a real home either. Except that time I bought a house. That felt like my home. I think. Or maybe I just think that after the fact. Who knows.

Is it Friday yet? Not as though I have a work week to get through (yet) or a place to go on the weekend (rather on Monday) and I haven't packed a thing. I see random personal items around the house and think, oh I'll pack that. Then I just leave the item wherever it is lying and go on about my business.

I stopped by my cousin's house where some of my old things are being stored. Sitting down on the cool and dusty concrete floor, going through boxes of things I once held in such high esteem; candles and holders, framed photographs of various people and things, a few different books, etc.
Instead of grabbing those things, I came way with a drumstick Jeff Burrows had given me after a Tea Party concert, a photograph of the Apostle's hands and the card he had given me years ago for my birthday.

Also, a pair of blue bowling shoes and some scented tea lights.

I have one of the shoes on now. Just seeing if it still fit.

I don't know why I chose those things. Maybe I'll figure it out on the plane ride. Maybe I won't.


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