leaving home - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
These brick walls have been my cocoon for the years I needed their sanctuary, and I thank them. My eyes wander their rugged clay surface, their rosy colour bright yet earthen. My hands feel the warmth of sun, imparted to them yet given back with a steady determination. Leaving home was never going to be easy, yet I take these emotions with me, these memories of comfort and joy.
The door that was once a brilliant royal blue has become brittle as it has faded in the sunlight; the seasons have taken their toll, baking it in summer, freezing in the coldest months. Leaving home is so hard, so many memories, and now all of them balled up in my chest. I run my hand down to the elongated handle, skinny at the edges, thicker in the middle, memorizing the patina. Then I seize it, ramming the door shut. I almost hear the ghost of my childhood whimper as I turn to the sharp breeze of late fall. I have grown up and life moves on, isn't that what they say?
The flag on the car flutters violently in the wind. It was cute on the city streets but here on the highway it moves so quickly and noisily that Vera wonders if it might break away from the pole. She watches the cheap plastic bending and the material beats as if it were trying to take flight. It stays that way, a battle between pole and flag until the car slows for the off ramp. Vera switches her attention to the changing scenery, so this will be her home for her university years. It feels so alien, yet no doubt when the time comes to go she'll feel a wrench to leave.
Today I leave home. I leave a place that has been my childhood cocoon. I love this home and the community around it so much that for now I can only bury this pain and hope to deal with it later. To those that take my place it is only walls, the streets only concrete, but to me there is love here. As I turn to depart I feel part of my soul imprint onto the walls, a parting gift from me to this place.
Years ago I imagined leaving home - mother in tears and father being stoic. I would pack a small car with oddly shaped bags and suitcases and head to college. Maybe that's the way it would have been had I not met Parmina. They hate the person I love and how do we get past that? So instead I leave with them scowling in the other room, father pretending to watch a TV show while mother washes dishes with such anger I can hear the plates clink over the canned laughter. There's no little car or array of baggage, only black bin-liners badly stuffed with my worldly goods. Just as the last one is filled there's a toot from the street, Parmina in a rented truck...
My friends leave home with their parents begging them to stay, mine show nothing but banal indifference. After eighteen years I'm still just another mouth to feed. It wasn't like this when Teddy left, the precious first born. For him there were tears, parcels of food and promises to send money to ease his transition. I guess it's my fault I never aced any math tests, won tennis matches or grew over six foot tall. I swear my future children will never be trophies. They'll be people and I love them, give them what I never had. The only sound as I leave is the door banging behind me, caught by the wind, and accidental though it is I am glad for the noise. It punctuates my exit, the biggest full stop of my life, nothing but a blank page ahead.
I knew when you walked in the door the place would go to the dogs. You lacked the integrity to do any job right. I watched the way you cut corners on every little task, always taking the easy route. That stuff adds up, it really does. So though my father loves you, know this, I don't, not at all. When your life is summed up, when you see what you amounted to, you'll know you were no more than a puppet on a string. You'll know that without integrity you became a zero sum, your good and bad cancelling one another out. Yet really, if you're only good when it suits you, does it count at all? Isn't that just self-interest? Isn't doing the right thing when no-one's looking the only type of goodness that matters? Isn't it only the goodness that makes self-sacrifice and says "No" to bad deeds that counts?
You never did that, not once. You were a leaf in the wind, and like that leaf, though you gave all the appearance of being alive you were just dying slowly, inside and out. It takes a courageous spirit to live well, one who knows how to walk the right path and does it just because it's the right thing to do. Now you look at me like I'm the crazy one, like doing the wrong things over and over is "just how we get along in the world." Well, I don't want that world; I'll be leaving now.
By the time this paper is held in your soft hand, I will be long gone. They want me, not you. They want my blood, not yours. So though all you'll ever find of me is this note, know that it isn't all I left. My love is in the very walls and foundation of our home, love for you to find. I left every ounce, and while it remains, I live. I never left your side at all, abandonment isn't my style.
We didn’t have much; only the important things: each other, love, and laughter.
I began pushing myself to become the person I had the potential to be. The long days spent desperately seeking employment, only to be lead to disappointment. My resilience tested, as if the universe was questioning my ambition. I continued fighting for the opportunities I knew where waiting.
I could feel it.
If I tried just one more application, job search, interview-- it will happen.
It has to be out there. What was it?
Part of me didn’t know. I just knew I was running.
Running to be finally free from the limitations I had lived,
Making the dark damp basement is a distant memory.
Carl ran his hand through his close cropped hair three times in quick succession and fixed his father in a stare that could have frozen the Pacific. He snarled more than spoke. "Once I get a deposit together I'm outta here. I'm gonna be independent, get my own place, decorate it better than this shit hole you provide. You're not a Dad, you're a fail, a loser. You don't even make twenty bucks an hour!" His father dropped his gaze to the floor and hooked his thumbs into his worn jeans. These long years since Carl's mother had died had been the toughest. Shouting at his son never worked and he didn't have the chops for it anymore.
"Son, I will support you no matter what you decide, but nobody is independent, that's just the biggest myth out there."
"No, Dad, it's not. I make more than you already, I'm going and you can't stop me."
"Son, I'm not stopping you, but I love you, and like I said, no-one is independent." Carl took a step towards his Dad, a vein almost popping in his temple and his fists tightly clenched. The old man stayed right where he was. "Everyone depends on someone, Carl. Someone's gotta pour that concrete for your condo, someone empties the trash, someone grows your food. Hell, even if you go live in a mountain hut you still depend on the wildlife. I know you're angry son, but you're not the only one that loved her. I lost her too." Carl took another step forwards, now almost nose to nose.
"She was an angel and you cheated on her with, what was her name again? Was she someone you 'depended on,' Dad?" The old man stayed still, it was bad enough that he'd never forgive himself, but to Carl it was like he'd killed her...