I am Kate. Here I will post images and words about my life and thoughts. Please enjoy. Read more about me here: |
Today in my research writing class we had to write about a place that comes to mind when we think of "home." I thought about my window in my room. Here is what I wrote (along with some photos): It’s a summer day. I have just come inside from spending the afternoon by the pool. My skin holds onto the warmth from outside and the harsh stream of sunlight, manifesting its way to tanned skin. I jump in the shower to rinse the warmth and salty chlorine off of me. I watch as the tainted water falls down the drain taking the brightness of the afternoon with it. When I walked into my room I could see the trees, which had leaves mimicking every shade of green possible, some even looking yellow with the harsh reflection of the sun. My window had been cracked, which made the air of my room fill with the familiar sound of chirping birds and a faint lawnmower that I somehow have in the back of every summer memory at home. I get out of the shower and dry off. The sky is darker now. I crack my window because I love the smell of an oncoming summer thunderstorm. I am in North Carolina where I have grown up; here we get thunderstorms almost every summer afternoon. They make you want to curl into bed and simply listen to the angry sky, which is exactly what I planned on doing. I climbed on top of my white sheets, now looking dull with the grey of the sky; I hear them rustle beneath me, conforming to my body. I am forced to close my window because rain is beginning to come down, splattering the edge of my bed that rests so close against the window. My room is humid from the outdoor air that has mixed with the steam of my shower. My room has now taken the smell of my lavender lotion and summer rain. I put on some music and get the book that I am currently reading. Here is where I will spend the rest of the afternoon. For some reason whenever I am seated in front of my window like this, I am flooded with memories of past years. I have spent so many hours in this exact spot reading, watching movies, collaging, writing, or just laying here. I can’t help but to feel a bit nostalgic as I watch myself come back to this space of comfort year after year. I change, but this spot still inflicts the same sense of ease in me. To me, this is how I think of home.
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Author18 year old girl living in boston and studying journalism. I love to create and be in nature. FOLLOW ME:
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