I am so sorry not to have been keeping the home fires burning these past few weeks, my darling reader. If it is of any consolation at all, I can assure you I've been doing my very best to spread the gospel according to Tabitha in all manner of exciting ways!
Ah! But now I'm home again, and very keen indeed to resume life as usual. Travelling is wonderful, but one does so long for the comforts of home and its womb-like, wholly encompassing feeling of safety and privacy.
Such bliss, isn't it, to slip into the lushness of one's very own bed after the vagaries of unfamiliar boudoirs? The contours of the mattress, the just-so starching of favourite sheets and the satisfaction of knowing one's neighbours are not about to start a Flamenco marathon or similar sleep-depriving activity.
Nothing is as natural as one's own sacred berth. The final bastion of solitude in this over-bright, ever-lit world of ours. Only in our beds are we free to dream; both literally and figuratively. Apparently, it is not the done thing to zone out into one's own private thoughts too regularly in public lest we be mistaken for being afflicted with any manner of conditions from epilepsy to devilish possession.
My own bed is a place of sanctity; an altar of sublime immersion. Whether of deep slumber or ecstatic elevation, everything that occurs within its confines is, by the very nature of its privateness to be considered special.
Oh, but there I go again! Hoisting even the simplest everyday occurrence to the dizzy heights of ritualistic precedence. I think you know me well enough by now, my darling, to understand why this scarlet heart of mine beats a little faster to anticipate closing my bedroom door behind me to welcome in the night!
Sweet dreams.
Ah! But now I'm home again, and very keen indeed to resume life as usual. Travelling is wonderful, but one does so long for the comforts of home and its womb-like, wholly encompassing feeling of safety and privacy.
Such bliss, isn't it, to slip into the lushness of one's very own bed after the vagaries of unfamiliar boudoirs? The contours of the mattress, the just-so starching of favourite sheets and the satisfaction of knowing one's neighbours are not about to start a Flamenco marathon or similar sleep-depriving activity.
Nothing is as natural as one's own sacred berth. The final bastion of solitude in this over-bright, ever-lit world of ours. Only in our beds are we free to dream; both literally and figuratively. Apparently, it is not the done thing to zone out into one's own private thoughts too regularly in public lest we be mistaken for being afflicted with any manner of conditions from epilepsy to devilish possession.
My own bed is a place of sanctity; an altar of sublime immersion. Whether of deep slumber or ecstatic elevation, everything that occurs within its confines is, by the very nature of its privateness to be considered special.
Oh, but there I go again! Hoisting even the simplest everyday occurrence to the dizzy heights of ritualistic precedence. I think you know me well enough by now, my darling, to understand why this scarlet heart of mine beats a little faster to anticipate closing my bedroom door behind me to welcome in the night!
Sweet dreams.