I have more reading for the first two weeks than I would ever care to retell. This is helping me keep busy, and taking care of myself and my house in those spare moments is fulfilling in ways I can't describe. I can really see this place as home- with the added bonus of a surrogate family (who for all of their flaws have really given me a feeling of security and belonging).
Not to blight the prospect of a perfect post without complaints there are things missing, one specifically. I unpacked what was left of my room, and vacuumed my rug. I thought if everything was in order I'd find it hiding in a suitcase, or spinning around in my chair, cuddling nala, or stretched out across my bed. I looked in every corner to no avail. I suppose it's lost forever. But I knew that going in, and have only myself to blame.
There is so much to be done, I feel as if the fabric from which I weave my life is changing bit by bit, becoming more sturdy and coarse. I'm fine with that; and as I reflect into my styrofoam coffee cup, I am glad that the rend left in the wake of last summer can be mended, though I am sure it will leave a scar.
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