Mourning

I am stricken with grief, stricken to the heart. I did not know it was possible to mourn for a house, for an old and wobbly house. It was my home, where memories, bad and good, lingered on, where numberless things— useful or impractical but always beautiful— lived in cozy and unexpected nooks. It was where I came to terms to myself; I accepted my story and turned my restless frustration into a startling source of peace and bliss. It was where I learned to find beauty in dailiness, to enjoy its balmy and gleeful effects; every little corner was embellished with charm and delicacy, everything was full with love, with God’s love, with human’s love. In that place nature and solitude aroused my longing for life, hope and truth, inflamed my rusty dreams and even spurred on me the desire of knowing myself better. Once awareness was awaken all things gained a different tinge, an extraordinary tint of allure, freshness and color and my humble preferences were replaced by more eager goals. I left this magical house more than week ago. I will grieve over my lost home as much as I need.

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