A wandering bird always returns to its nest.
As the long, hard day meanders towards a conclusion the bird seeks refuge. No matter where he flutters off to when there is light in the sky, no matter how far he wanders, no matter how long it takes him to find food, he always manages to return where he belongs, home, warmly ensconced in his comforting nest. Snug and safe.
My decision to shake off all apprehensions and lethargy and return to the refuge of writing again, makes me such a bird. I am trying to find my way back home again. Neither the aestivating forces of a broken heart nor the painful ravages at the wake of a prolonged phase of ill fortune could restrain me for very long.
He who said that first love always remains the first; no matter how many times your heart opens its doors for others, couldn’t have been more correct. I am coming back.
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