There are things you just can’t do in life. You can’t beat the phone company, you can’t make a waiter see you until he’s ready to see you, and you can’t go home again.
Bill Bryson
There are things you just can’t do in life. You can’t beat the phone company, you can’t make a waiter see you until he’s ready to see you, and you can’t go home again.
The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.
Perhaps I am the turtle, able to live simply anywhere, even underwater for short periods, with my home on my back.
I fall asleep with my friends around me /
the only place I know /
I’m going to call this home /
In the bedroom you grew up in…It understands how neurotic you have become, the way you treat our flaws like old friends. The way you look in the mirror and think of yourself as ‘Mr. Misery’.
I never realize how much I like being home unless I’ve been somewhere really different for a while.
Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.
I’m young, I live in a house my father owns, in a bed my father bought. Nothing is mine except my heart and my fears and my growing knowledge that not every road is gonna lead home anymore.
It hasn’t felt like home before you.
And you can never get it back. It’s like you get homesick for a place that doesn’t exist. I mean it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it’s like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that’s all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place.