Anguished soul, I thought. Then I decided it was worthy of inclusion on my list of Clever Phrases and made a mental note to write it down as soon as I got home.

When I thought anguished soul, I was thinking of myself. When I thought, stupid sentimental wannabe writer, I meant pretty much the same thing, and I was again referring to myself. Luckily all that crap could vanish in an instant if I wanted it to. Because (and here was the most heart-wrenching bit) I was home.

Home doesn’t mean a building with windows and a front door and a bedroom with your name written on the door. At least, not to me. I only have a home during autumn, and—here it is.

Beautiful. The lake is always beautiful, but it’s most inspiring during autumn, so that’s when it’s my house. And it’s the place where I can write all the sappy stories of nothingness that spill in my heart like water from the clouds. Here, surrounded by the yellowing leaves and the crisp scent of nearby winter.

Here, I’m home.