I can picture myself lakeside or near a river or stream. Somewhere where fog rolls in during the night and tugboats sing their mournful drones. A city with a sea breeze that always seems to linger on the nose and tongue.
Dark Water and cobblestone side streets accompanying me on nightly walks. Crescent moon overhead and the trailing discourse of jazz ambling by from a corner pub. After it rains the pavement glows with the warm reflections cast by quaint diners and inns.
I can see myself sitting outside sipping an IPA so potent that it could be used as an industrial-strength cleaning solution. Armed with pen and paper, or a classical acoustic guitar, it’d be very much like here except I’d feel at home, in my element.
Just as our blood calls us to certain people, it can also call us to places. And what is a person but a place? Another world as real and vast as mine.
Can I be content without those places? If I can’t be there, I can least tidy up my own corner of infinity and carry that sea breeze with me wherever I go. They say, “Home is where the heart is.” Where else but within myself?