Lay me down, Let me rest my laurels...

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It's a quiet night with rain on the side ,

And a steaming mug of hot tea too.

Waiting for you come back home, 

And sit beside me in a cozy room.

 

There is a great book beside the lamp,

A squashed sofa with a cushion or two,

Take a moment to rest by my side,

Rest your eyes and feel at home.

 

The picture is still hung crooked on the wall, 

The house still cluttered with junk,

There might still be the stain on the carpet,

But this home is still my haven, 

 

This is where I belong. 

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Visiting Journals...

Posted in as a kind of

And there's a reason why I dreamed of writing. When I'm reading, I feel like I want to be there. I want to be a famous person who Neil Gaiman would dedicate books to. I want to be a famous person whose blog you read. I want to be doing those amazing random things that writers get to do (because you never know what might be useful, so you've got to experience EVERYTHING). 
And most of all I want to write because I feel like Robin McKinley does when she first read Charmed Life (by Diana Wynne Jones). It's a splendiforous adventure that leave stars in your eyes and an ache in your heart. A quiver in your soul. And you'd believe in magic.
Yes, I want to be there. 

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