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Am I even my own? Or just a mosaic?

I miss the days of vintage Nike tee shirts on my dad. The days when he had hair. The days of waking up on Christmas morning, and going downstairs to see a rainbow lit Christmas tree.

The feel and smell of the clean crisp air. Looking outside to see the sunset from my childhood bedroom window, taking note of the way the light refracted through the still of the air.

These are all things I can never get back, or rather go back to. The world I live in now is a dull one. Sure, it’s an aesthetically pleasing one though. And it’s just now that I realized that I’ve been tricked.

When I moved out, I wanted all white walls. I thought it was clean. A contrast to my busy mind. But I have it all. And now I’m wishing I could go back to rainbow lit Christmas trees.

Now all I see are white lit ones.

Recently I’ve been missing the warmth of the golden toned floors in my old home

I keep getting brought back to there in my mind for some reason

It wasn’t just the color. It was the way the rays of sun reflected off of them, illumination revealing the dust particles floating in the air

It smelled like authentic stale oak, with notes of fresh wax on top. The kind of smell that reminded you of your grandparents house.

Modern homes just have laminate. Man made, manufactured, ersatz. However, it’s not made to be a replica. Nor does it claim to be so.

Walking through on an early sunrise, during Christmas break, paired with said sun & dust; you looked out the window to see chimneys creating art. The gray skies now have thick puffy clouds swimming through them

Even just hearing the sound that the floor made as you walked on it, was something to be noted. Reminiscent of childhood. The creaking peaking through the silence

Topped off with a balsam bath and body works candle going, and a glimmer of the Christmas tree in the background. Childhood had incandescent lights. This had white lights. I remember in that moment, wanting the colorful lights again. But looking back now on both, I just wish for the white lights. This is now becoming a recognizable pattern. It seems we always long for the last chapter of the previous book. Maybe it’s because we already know the ending. Future books and chapters are unknown. But I do not fear anymore, because I know the author