The sun that drift over the ice bound rim of the villages boundaries. Finds the roof of my home, and from the dew and snow covered roof gently simmers the cool fog of contentment.
This may sound strange to those that have followed my blog prior to this version, it may even sound a bit odd, if you have read recent posts here. That I should post this post about the home I move live in. I am single, my partner and I have ended our firepan relationship, with mutual respect on both sides and for the better I think we would both agree.
So why do I show a picture of my home? Why wax lyrical about the home built for more than one life to share? Well let’s answer that directly. My home is where my heart is. That may sound trite, even condescending on a way. I am single, does that mean I no longer love Ludmila? No. I will always love her, for being her.
Home is where the heart is literally, speaking because the heart beats in my chest, has loves outside that partnership. The bond formed with my owner is stronger than any that I have yet found. And in that truth, softly nestles the lust, desire, wants, needs, all of which are catered for, acknowledge and with the tenderest care held in check by my owner.
Held within the home is a wall of pictures, memories and love. From my family to my first sail. A collection of my finest memories adorn this wall, each having special links memories and dreams connected with my heart. And my heart has other walls pictures and memories in the home that is warm and filled with love. I sit in front of the fire, where I spent time with the cats, and look at these pictures, one by one. And my heart has every emotion still flowing in my heart.
So the home is where my heart is, is close to the small Tyre fire that my sister and I spend time talking over the days the news the world. I am surrounded by the family that blankets me in truth and true love. And I snuggle in that blankets, but know in an instance that should we need out, we may surround another with such a feeling, such a moment of safety that surrounds the target and holds them sage in the walls under the roof of secure emotions, on the rugs and furs of list, looking through the windows of our soul, to watch the sun that drifts over the ice bound rim of the villages boundaries. That finds the roof of my home, and from the dew and snow covered roof gently simmers the cool fog of contentment.