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Home Is Where Your Heart Is

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We're back from a two-week stint in Israel. I wrote about coming back to my childhood home before, about the feeling of surrealism. I feel it today as well. The house we currently live in is home, in a way. It's the house we've lived in the longest since our childhood homes. But we're renting it, so it's not technically ours, which is a whole other post.

I'm having trouble gathering my thoughts today. The time difference between London and Israel isn't too bad, but the older I get I feel like my body finds it harder to deal with jet-lag. It's possible I'm more attuned to my body now, and it's always been difficult. But in any case, the result is that I find myself reading half a page, then writing two sentences (if that), then going to put on a load of laundry and getting stuff organised in the bedroom and randomly baking. And the entire time my brain feels like it's filled with wool. Everything is foggy, and I can't remember what I started saying a couple of minutes ago.

So, that's where I am today. Back home trying to gather my thoughts and figure out what it is I want to write about.


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