of a place called home

Time has a way of teaching you to how to build walls around you; each brick laid carefully in its proper place at the proper time.

Slowly, you build your own little world inside the private landscape of your soul;
an Eden sheltered from the barbs of humanity's frailties, a small escape from the desolate desperation of the world outside.

And so here I rule, king of my private kingdom with tender loving care, far from the ghosts that haunt my troubled mind;
a place I can be myself.
A place I can call home.


Then why is it always raining here?