The Quaint Little House

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The love of knowing, that life can be passionate at its simplistic divinity.

Submitted: February 01, 2016

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Submitted: February 01, 2016

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The Quaint Little House

We all have the urge to live in a small, quiet space. A place of passion and freedom, resting quietly on a large, open field. A field of your choosing, and a location of your desire. The place that you will live for a great interval of life, in which you have constructed yourself to pursue passions, and intentions of modesty. This place is merely yours, of what you construe from a dream, maybe, or perhaps a slight thought, planted and grown with a mastery of care.
I personally experienced this type of life. For one day I observed, breathed, and took a long hard gander into the beautiful, pollinated and nurtured air. The energy was compensating and filling for my body. My soul was ever so bursting with flavor and enhanced with excitement. At that moment, I knew this was the feeling of contentment.
Soon after my arrival, I contemplated what I could possibly accomplish. As I pace myself slowly around the vibrantly omitting green field, an eager feeling that braced my chest, encouraging me to haul the stack of oak logs into a small shed, just a wee bit shy of the quaint little house. I was worried my physique did not match the expectancy to pack such a labor, but I put two feet first as always, and carried what my muscles would attain. It was acceptable to say that I have never experienced such a challenge, but I wasn't unmatched. 
Surprisingly enough, the challenge was undoubtedly met: Transporting a mass of roughly five thousand pounds of pure oak logs. I felt like a man, a worker, or an independent farmer. This meant I learned a worker’s ethic and patience to successfully complete a duty that was self-willed. 
That evening, I branched off to look for a number of boulder sized rocks to place in a ring formation. This created a pit for a nice warm fire. It stole an hour from my day, just searching for something that didn't exist in the area. It was a field and a soft one at that. Thankfully, I found nothing, and soon figured out what this field lacked. I decided to walk back to the house where I prepared the stone fireplace, high with wood. This room was the most exciting of the house. The dark, rustic colors made the atmosphere thick. The bright fire was the only light source, and was always that way. There was an antique captain's chair residing right in front of the fireplace where I could practically roast the outer layer of my skin, if ever wished. After a long day of labor, anything this classic would be comforting, and it felt almost perfect. 
With a glass of iced tea lying shy of the empty pitcher holds only but a distressed lemon, of which was used to squeeze for flavor. I knew that I had a great day of experience that would keep me coming back. The sense of modesty and the humble passion of residing on a farm space warmed my heart, and I felt happy: The happiness a man gets from knowing his work paid off. At the end of the day I slept with the sheer satisfaction of warming a house. I snored as if the letter ‘z’ were physically flying out of my mouth, in sequence to my rumbling. My legs were sprawled out in a beautiful captain’s chair, and my hand clutched the half-empty glass of tea, keeping the cigarette between my fingers as it subtly burnt away.

 


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