I love my house

I've been going home on my lunch break the past couple of days. And I love it.

It's weird getting so attached to an inanimate object. "Dude, it's just a house." For me, though, my house, my home, is full of life. I'm having a hard time even trying to explain what it means to me.

Growing up, my mom's house was safe. Warm. Comfort. I lived there for 18 years and knew every square inch of it. But now whenever I go there to see Mom, it's just a house. I'm just visiting. The memories aren't there anymore for some reason.

I've tried to block out all the years in The Bat Cave. I have fond memories of my time living there, but I don't associate them with that house. I walked around the yard there the other day, turned to Harry, and said, "Yep, don't miss it at all." He agreed.

This house, though, our house, has already given us so much pleasure. We happily fork over the mortgage payment. I dance a little jig up the steps of town hall to pay the taxes. Yeah, I'm crazy. Yeah, I dance jigs. Wanna make something of it?

Sure, we work hard for it. Sure, it was a long road getting there, actually purchasing this house (and hell, we've still got 20 years to go). And sure, it represents new beginnings, better days, and my happy life.

But again, it's more than that. I sit there, enjoying the silence when no one else is around. It calms me down. It brings me peace. It's an extension of me. It protects my family (like me). It brings us all comfort. There's no place else I'd rather be (although a nice hotel on a beach is nice once in a while).