Cottage Dreams

I have recently grown quite enamored with the idea of living in a cottage in the middle of nowhere growing my own food, or buying an obscene amount of non-perishables, and retreating from everything.

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Yes to anyone who is extroverted and feeds off of social contact maybe this isn’t so great, but alas the idea of getting energy from social encounters to me is probably the second most exhausting thing in the universe.

I mean by no stretch of the imagination am I not social I just need some serious me time after. Understandably selfish if you’re the one I’m blowing off, oh well I’m kind of sorry if it’s any consolation.

I’ve always loved the idea of living somewhere that looks like it comes from a fairy tale. And if I can’t live in Hogwarts, a cottage in the woods is the next best thing. There’s something that is so distinctly cozy about this idea that I simply can’t ignore it.

I’ve always bounced around with my ambitions.

What can I say I’m fickle to the moon and back; for a brief time I dreamed of being a city rat or doing some crazy job surrounded by adoring people; or maybe travelling, never settling down living a vagabond life for all of eternity.

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But recently I’ve had some revelations.

Yes I love travel, but then again I hate leaving, I fall in love with places too easy, I’d probably destroy myself trying to live eternally on the move. My possessions would lose value, I love my family far too much to leave them for too long, and mostly I like coming home. And so it was decided, no vagabond life for me I’ll never stop fantasizing about it, and I’ll probably try to live it for a few years then head home and stay home.

Now, the aspiration to be surrounded by adoring people and city life…yeah not happening. This life calls to me no longer, at all. I might live a city life for enrichment purposes, but never for a long amount of time. Too much helter skelter, too much contact with strangers, not enough time to just be.

I’ve now turned to the idea of finding a way to do as much as I can without sprinting. To find a way to be comfortable in my own skin, my own life-pacing. Living in a cottage outside of the common world bubble seems incredibly suited for someone as naturally hobbity as me.

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Not saying I don’t have a bit of a Baggins in me, adventure will always call  but there will also always be the shire to return to.

I am out of my time, surrounded by flashing neon and a world full of people trying to be louder and bolder than each other. Trying to outwit the clock, sprint faster than the second hand. Never enough time.

I like to take my time, I like to watch the clock and count with it, I like to see it stretched out in front of me. I like to see its line slowly meandering across the horizon. A horizon I could see out the window of another world.

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