I am listening to christmas music and reading everything is illuminated and thinking on jonathan safran foer, the person, the man that he is...the father that is he is [just looked at wiki article, he has a son]...it is a book to be brokenhearted with...it makes me think so much...so much more than i have been doing because to think means that i have to think about everything and i dont think i can take that...life...people...my grandfather...expectations...not wanting to think about ever having to see or hear him cry...the movie was a lot more positive...maybe a little heartbreaking at the end...but the book is infusing all consuming...it seems realer than my life right now...i want to be safe again, really safe...being overfed at teatime and looking into deep dog eyes...feeling that weight on my knee...i want to have the sort of conversation that is bright sunshine and strawberry rasna...i want a new year on a terrace...i want the past...i want my dads past...i want what i know i cannot have...and never did. its just me and my nostalgic whitewash, forgetting things that i dont remember now buried in that blocked off part of me. this is not about some deep dark horrible secret. just little everyday things. unnoticed. a word here. a word there. words that made the world a little darker and crumbly. where is home? what is home?