Sometimes to be at home is like a nightmare by Stephen King.
You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn__ really your home anymore_ All of the sudden, even though you have some place to put your shit, that idea of home is gone_ Or maybe it's like this rite of passage_ You will never have that feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start. It__ like a cycle or something. Maybe that__ all family really is: a group of people that miss the same imaginary place.
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You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn__ really your home anymore_ All of the sudden, even though you have some place to put your shit, that idea of home is gone_ Or maybe it's like this rite of passage_ You will never have that feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start. It__ like a cycle or something. Maybe that__ all family really is: a group of people that miss the same imaginary place.
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Maybe this isn't home, nor ever was- maybe home is where I have to go tonight. Home is the place where when you go there, you have to finally face the thing in the dark.
People don't get to choose their family, but if you have the family you would choose - that's happiness.
Our ancestors derived less from life than we do, but they also expected much less and were less intent on controlling the future. We are of the arrogant generations who believe a lasting happiness was promised to us at birth. Promised? By whom?
Although terrifying, the evil ghost will probably pose no real danger to you or your family. On the other hand, if you have a demonic infestation, your entire household is in very real danger. A demonic entity will not usually confront you or induce you to flee the home. Because, unlike the evil ghost, the demon does not actually want you to leave. On the contrary, it wants you to stick around so it can destroy your life and sully your soul from the inside.
Do we take less pride in the possession of our home because its walls were built by some unknown carpenter, its tapestries woven by some unknown weaver on a far Oriental shore, in some antique time? No. We show our home to our friends with the pride as if it were our home, which it is. Why then should we take less pride when reading a book written by some long-dead author? Is it not our book just as much, or even more so, than theirs? So the landowner says, __ook at my beautiful home! Isn__ it fine?_ And not, __ook at the home so-and-so has built._ Thus we shouldn__ cry, __ook what so-and-so has written. What a genius so-and-so is!_ But rather, __ook at what I have read! Am I not a genius? Have I not invented these pages? The walls of this universe, did I not build? The souls of these characters, did I not weave?