At least that’s how I felt years ago, as a child, looking out from my top floor window at the beautiful view outside. I think I must have been around 10 years old then and unaware of the brutal reality of the world, I felt nothing but peace as I sat there watching the rain fall.
That house always seemed so perfectly warm. . .it felt like home: either on its own merit or because I was too childish to know better. We left it when I was about 13 and didn’t get over it till I was about 20. I always wanted to go back there somehow. But when I did go back there even if just to see it, I had already gotten over it. . .and new troubles vexed my mind. I didn’t feel the joy I’d imagined I’d feel in looking at the place again. . .hell, I was too depressed to feel any joy at all. . .it was all pain.