I've always wanted to fill my house with pretty things. The gentle, teasing dance of candlelight. Antique books with cracked spines and yellowing pages, modestly wearing the scars of time. Vibrant, beautiful flowers: ones that fill the whole kitchen with a wild, powdery scent. An ornate, full length mirror in the hallway by the door, because how do you tell if the shoes really go with the outfit otherwise? It was all I considered: when I thought about my 'dream' home.
Except. I know now, for certain, that it is not about things. I've been taught that is never about things. Not the green succulent aesthetic, or whether the plates are clean of last night's velvety chocolate cake (they're not), or if the leather of the sofa is perfectly intact. It isn't about how the morning sun glistens in through that window, or whether there's a doormat featuring a cute, neatly embroidered positive affirmation that has been slowly covered and caressed by autumn leaves and mud. Those things are lovely, yes,
but they do not make a home.