I thought I ought.

I don't really have much to say. I just wanted to say something. The thing that's been on my mind lately is the fact that, like it or not, I'm leaving here in two weeks. I'm going home.
     I remember home. I know every nook and cranny of the house. I'll still be able to make my way around with my eyes closed. But it won't be the same. Why, you ask? The house won't change. The people will all be the same people. The routine will hardly budge. But sometimes, even having been here for two and a half months already, I catch myself and realize, 'hey. I'm here.' I find myself thinking things like, 'I haven't seen my mom for two and a half months. I've never been away from home this long. I'm starting to forget what it's like to play my own piano.' And it doesn't seem all that abnormal, either. This... Germany...  it's life now, I guess. It's normal. I miss my old life more and more... and less and less as I go on here. I think about going home and wonder, 'Will that be enough for me now?' And the truth is, I don't know. Maybe it won't. Maybe I'll need more adventures...

     And just for kicks; I wrote this poem in my journal, right after waking up from a very, very strange dream:...

                   Wierdness. Yeah, I know. 

It kinda freaked me out, though. 

The things my mind comes up with

Are more than I can cope with.

Dead babies in ceilings

Their zombies on floors, 

I once went throughout the whole house to lock doors

in my sleep. 

Dreams that are creepy, 

Dreams just plain wierd; 

I believe I once dreamed of a man with a beard

which wasn't so wierd. 

I like to write poems, sing songs, and read books;

quite often you'll find me in my little nooks.

But the things I come up with 

in those dreams of mine

make the books look like nothing; 

(and this doesn't rhyme.)

But then I awaken 

the visions are taken 

and put in a little corner; 

the glamor fades. 

I open the shades, 

to greet the morning's mourner. 

( I like the last part because no one ever makes sense of it.)