As life goes

The walls have been filled with straw and tarred. The larder stockpiled and the food preserved for the winter. The only thing I need to use swiftly will be butter, as I have yet to learn how to make cheese out of it. Perhaps I will trade some of the coin for bread, or share the butter with mother. She knows how to not waste it.

As always, I find my home comfortable, and despite loving the travel, I find myself drawn to the comfort it offers each winter I spend here. They say your home is where your heart is, but heart is a fickle beast, moving between what it loves and craves like a squirrel somebody fed a cube of sugar. At fall, mine rejoices in the idea of returning home, to my shack, the crackling fire and cold winds howling on the outside, while I read tales of travel and warm my blood up with a drink or two. But once the winter is at the end, it craves the plains and lands I've yet to be in, spurred on by the word of the writer.

And so I wander. I take my bow, my bag, and I leave. For moons I wander and each season sees me in a different place, until the wanderlust is sated and the heart dreams of home once more. An unending cycle. One I'm glad to be a part of.

Even then, that strange longing set in my spirit and I cannot quite name it. Each time I try to describe it, the words elude me. I try now, and I ramble, to myself, about myself.

Perhaps the coming days will have an answer for me.