There is a very fine line between making things look artsy and making them look trashy. 

It's funny how you can live almost your whole life in one place, and never seem to grow tired of the beauty that surrounds you. So many people say you don't notice how beautiful it is until you've left it, but I've never seemed to be able to miss it. It fills me and I try my hardest to take it in with all my senses. However, no amount of deep breaths, long stares, focused listening, or running my fingers along all the surfaces seems to fill me enough. (I don't get enjoyment out of licking things that aren't meant to be tasted in the literal sense.) There's a part of me that yearns to become part of it. I just want to sink into the grass and float with the clouds; I wish to jump into the water and become the silky ripples; and, like a little girl, I imagine running with the wind so fast that it picks me up and I'm soaring through the sky.

But, as all things that are good, it must come to an end every once in a while. New adventures await; new discoveries draw you in. And although this beauty becomes a memory, it begins to become me and I it. The wind that picked me up and carried me to a new land stays with me like an old friend. The smell of the grass of my home never seems to fade. And the voices of the trees still whisper, "we're still here. Come home."