Haven

I've just realised something.

I was standing in my room, pulling on my PJs and looked around at all of my cluttered bookshelves (three of them, all full to bursting) and my stained writing desk, which is covered in inks and pens and half-filled journals and scraps of poetry, as well as a large collection of watches (mine and other people's that I'm supposed to fix). And my gaze turned to my two guitars and my drums, and also my paintings, and then I got into my snug bed, and examined the pile of books on my beside table, and listened to the rain drumming on the tin roof and sliding down the windows...

This is a sanctuary. I have everything here, I have my books and my music and my writing tools, and... I realised that I really fucking love my life. I am rich. I have so much. I have so many things that expand my thinking and my creativity and my self-expression.

I will sleep tonight surrounded by so very many things that are me and my life.