Home is being tired. But knowing that doesn’t matter. The ability to summon reserves of passion. The knowledge of being capable of this.
Hours or seconds. It doesn’t matter. It’s about not stopping. It’s about continuing no matter what. Voluntarily. Unconditionally.
Home is perseverance.
Such inspiration! Such potential! Inspiration from everything. Potential for anything.
Home is inspiration + potential.
What more could I ask for?
Home is creation. Intellectual synthesis. Absorb, process, produce. Home is caring about what you read, trying to write as fast as your thoughts, the soaring feeling from knowledge to original conclusion. Home is learning.
O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring;
Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass. 1900 ed.
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of the eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and wasted years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
