Sometimes I think I’m meant to be alone, living in a place like this.

The weather can be my right hand for the storms raging in my mind. Book shelves line the walls, full of weathered bindings, thick with the scent of dust and forgotten knowledge. Carefully thought and placed curiosities barter for room along with the stray unique haphazard find.

It is not completely off the grid, but just enough so when I want it to be. Flowers and gardens when the weather is nice. Rain boots on the covered porch. An old rocking chair creaking with a visitor no longer is this world. Fireplace for aesthetics, and the smell of a tree’s final energy. Feet curled up beneath me on a comfortably oversized chair, a colorful thick blanket half kicked off. Projects of every sort in scattered organization. A stripped acoustic guitar waiting new struts on the work bench. A sign asking for the final rub of seal, waiting to announce to passerby where they are. A basket of mismatched fabric and jeans taunt the needle and bobbin.

Rain beats a steady drum on the metal roof and drips into makeshift cistern cymbals. The stiff wind that slaps the water against the rocks makes no entry against the rough hewn timber. The only other noises come from the slumbering dog, the crackle of a hardwood fire, a muted playlist, my own breaths, and the lids of my eyes losing their battle to stay open. It is my peace, my calm, and my most secret, quietest wish of my own.