This is March

"I can see how it might be possible for a man to look down upon the earth and be an Atheist, but I cannot conceive how a man could look up into the heavens and say there is no God" 
- Abraham Lincoln

It had been so long since I saw the stars. I remember when we used to watch them from steamy havens, through fir trees that whistled in the breeze. There will be days that I sit outside in blankets, stiff bones and hot breath just to watch them dance. 

I have all these chaotic thoughts, but when I go to write them down my hands stop dead. Sometimes I have to remember that this is not like school - that the words inside me circulate with my bloodstream. They are not victim to spelling mistakes and sentence structure, but instead serve as a series of moments which will, one day, make up my memory. I write without intent or purpose, for no other reason than my own pleasure - but it can be hard at times to let yourself do so.

When I think about it, some of my most precious moments are those when I'm nostalgic. When I remember the smell of the patio in August, when it was flooded from the hose and hot from long childhood summers. I still remember to keep moments now: to take in every detail and hold them tightly, squeezing my eyes shut until they are blurry with darkness. It saddens me slightly that I have spent most my life eager to grow, yet I know I will spend so many years re-living these wishing to go back.

Soon, I will make new memories in a new home. For the places I have been living the last few years have seemed like stop-offs. Homes that are stained from other's lives, mismatched bits and pieces of impersonal memorabilia. But not this. This will be our own. And when I close my eyes I can feel it; hazy and golden like a forgotten dream. I think I am homesick for a place I've never been.

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