Bonaventure



I had just awaken in a strange house cluttered with nicknacks and antiques. The air was cool and the floor creaked gently. The homeowner didn't come home the previous night and I was left to browse freely through his record collection. It was a varied collection that contained oddities such as a reader's digest travel album which I had enjoyed briefly the night before. But my morning eyes were drawn to an album I was acquainted with.  While I had listened on occasion to a pirated copy of Pink Moon since high school I had never heard that album like I did that morning. The turntable was connected to a scattered set of speakers on the floor but the richness of Drake's voice filled the third floor of that strange wooden house. I remember standing there watching the dust particles rise and fall in the harsh sunbeams of the morning light while "place to be" played. I had never been there in that home prior to that weekend stay but a sense of comfortable familiarity came over me. Rarely had I felt so peaceful and relaxed. I admired the old books on the dresser nearby. I imagined a life there, envisioning someone who I wanted to be. This was unclear at the time and remained indescribable later when I spoke to my therapist. The distance of the entirely different had never felt so close.
It wouldn't be until my arrival at Bonaventure that I regained my sense of that distance. 

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