I moved into my mothers house this weekend. It is a strange feeling because this house is so different then the other places that I lived. I mean, I have been in this house every weekend and some weekdays since me moved there right before Christmas, but this house is not a referance point for me. It is not my house, nor is it home.
I realized that I am a very sentimental person when it comes to my house. Before this week I lived with my high school best friend but I was in her territory because the house was just across the yard from her parents. That was a cool place to be because it was a like a long high school sleep over, only because we slept at nights.
The house I lived in before that was a nice house in Cayo that I rented from my good friends. Mom and I moved there when I started sixth form (junior college) and I really grow up there. My brothers weren't around and I really learned to find interest without them. Mom went on a lot of trips while I lived there so I was on my own a lot. One of her trips lasted 5 months and Rachel, who was also going to Sixth form stayed with me. That was a great time in my life. We were college girls, but very mature about it.
That house was what I named my blog after. That house inspired me to be me. I breathed in that house. I wrote about that house I learned that I love art, and poems and writing and that I loved to learn and feel responsible and I loved God and I loved talking to him at night rather then the early mornings like I was told. It was in that house I drew on the walls, failed something for the first time. I neglected the yard because I realized I don't like gardening unlike what I thought. I thought about being a nocturnal person while i lived there.
That house in no longer in my possession. My friends' divorce stole it from me. But when I think about home... the house at the end of the street that has the little room toward the back of the house, the one that has little mice drawn on the window sill.