Long, long ago, when I didn’t even know what a sanctuary meant, I decided to make a house for myself. One that would have all those things that I love and all the material things I rightly owned. It was never a juvenile dream, nor was it a childhood fantasy. It has been a solid concrete plan in my head fixed firmly; just as firmly as my head on my shoulders. I’ve imagined it, and now that I earn (a pittance) there is nothing more important to me than making that house for myself. Not even matrimony. Not further education. Not anything. Nothing.
I look at that house as a part of my existence. The reason for me to keep going no matter how bad the traffic is, how broken my spirit is, and how consuming getting-up is. I know I’m going to get there someday. I know I’m not going to invite anyone in. I don’t care what people think, but no one’s invited. I know I’m going to stack up all the books I’ve been collecting (and buying for a year now) in a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. I know I’m going to have lots of white with some blue around. I know I’m going to put up a softboard and pin all the cards I’ve received and collected in my life. I’m going to use a lot of glass. I know I’m going to keep it spacious and almost empty, so that I don’t feel bound. I know I’m going to give my blood and do whatever it takes to build that place.
I’m going to make that place and then go there every time I want to find some meaning to my life. Some reason for existing. Some place to belong. Some place that I know is going to be there when no one else is.
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