染雾家的含义英语美文 篇一
Home is Where the Heart Is
Home is more than just a place where we live. It is a sanctuary, a place of comfort and security where we can truly be ourselves. Home is where we can let our guard down and be surrounded by the love and support of our family and loved ones.
Home is where we create memories that last a lifetime. Whether it's celebrating holidays, sharing meals together, or simply spending quality time with those we care about, these moments become cherished memories that we hold dear in our hearts.
Home is a place of belonging. It is where we feel a sense of connection and community with those around us. It is where we can be part of something greater than ourselves, whether it's our family, our neighborhood, or our culture.
Home is a reflection of who we are. It is a space that we can personalize and make our own, filled with the things that bring us joy and comfort. Our home is a reflection of our values, our tastes, and our personalities.
Home is a source of strength and resilience. It is a place where we can find refuge during difficult times, where we can find solace and support from those who care about us. Home is where we can recharge and regroup, ready to face whatever challenges life may bring.
In the end, home is where the heart is. It is a place where love resides, where memories are created, and where we feel a deep sense of belonging. Home is not just a physical space, but a feeling of warmth and comfort that we carry with us wherever we go.
家的含义英语美文 篇二
The Essence of Home
Home is a sanctuary, a place of refuge from the chaos of the outside world. It is a haven where we can retreat and find solace in the familiar comforts that surround us. Home is where we can let down our guard, be ourselves, and feel truly at peace.
Home is a place of love and connection. It is where we can build strong relationships with our family and loved ones, where we can share laughter, tears, and everything in between. Home is where we can feel supported and cared for, no matter what challenges we may face.
Home is a space that we can make our own. It is where we can express our creativity and individuality, decorating and arranging our surroundings to reflect our unique personalities. Home is a canvas on which we can paint the picture of our lives.
Home is a source of stability and security. It is a foundation upon which we can build our dreams and aspirations, knowing that we have a safe place to return to at the end of the day. Home is where we can find strength and courage to face the uncertainties of the world.
In the end, home is more than just a physical space. It is a feeling of warmth and belonging that we carry with us wherever we go. Home is where our hearts reside, where our souls find peace, and where we can truly be ourselves. Home is not just a place, but a state of mind, a feeling of love and comfort that transcends the boundaries of time and space.
家的含义英语美文 篇三
家的含义英语美文
It was the smell of rain that I missed the most and the sound of a lawnmower and the waft of cut grass. It was being out in the open and standing bare foot! Blue skies part and parcel of it all; the thunder that would blast over and leave―the coming of a tropical sundown, an evening of barbecues, of warm pools, beer splattering on concrete. The bed awaiting, a vest, a body glistening from perspiration and a sleep of pillows constantly changing sides, a mosquito in the ear. Sleepless nights that were all you knew. And then, one day I left it behind. I moved to a city, to grim faced pallid movements, and there I became with them a ghost on the sidewalks. Dimly, ambling along with my face down, watching my steps and hurrying towards my quotidian activities.
Winters I spent indoor in solace. My flat mates―the friends I had―worked day and night. They were accustomed to leaving the soul behind, the need for money was so official. I would spend nights in the strange house, with creaks of a wall I did not know, and sit by the phone that our landlord had locked, and think of conversations of the past, of my mother's voice ringing, of my best friend whom I would lose contact with, and I would write letters, letters I would never send, letters that clutched the truth―that only I knew. I would cry, tears staining the ink, a smudged idea of love. I was temping then, doing mindless data entry, tapping words into a computer, and moving on wondering what worth there was, and how to find it. My flat mates would come home just before midnight―Mark and Craig, my two best friends. I would smile inwardly and outwardly and make them tea, a sandwich, sit with them and live their lives, hear their stories, flourish in company. Sleep would be eschewed, I yearned for comfort, and company eased the etching of loneliness.
I drank a lot, I had a job and I met people, and I continued my ambling in a city that was not mine. Every Friday my work offered free drinks and I catapulted towards the bar, I sipped 8)ferociously at the wine, the beer, I got horrifically drunk and so the person that I was not, but so yearned to be would come out. She, loud, vivacious, articulate would spend the evening conversing with strangers, laughing and sometimes, flirting! I seemed to step out of myself and watch in amazement. After drinks, I would stumble to the Palladium to meet Mark and Craig―they both worked there as ushers. I would arrive as they were finishing work and we would sit in the bar and I would continue, I would drink.
One night we fell drunk into the house. I lit a cigarette; I sat down and my mind triggered off dull thuds of depression. I went to the bathroom and in a mode of translucent mania I took out a razor blade and in numb motions slowly cut at my wrist, tears streaming down my face, I stopped as soon as I started, my aim was wrong-it was in the name of attention, except I would tell nobody, the attention was all to myself. Quietly, I wrapped my stinging arm with toilet paper, walked to my room and put on a jersey so as to cover the threat, the childish self abuse. I lay and quickly wiped my tears as I heard the friendly footsteps of Mark and Craig. They stood and bantered and eventually I followed them downstairs, and listened to Bob Marley, and Redemption song, my favorite song―"Sold I to the merchant ships…"
And so, I stood on the tube, Dollis Hill to Marylebone and I stared at the scars on my wrist. The scars of stupidity that only I knew of, I was entranced, as though it were not me―it's never me. I swayed to the motion of the train, the city was corrupting me, my soul was slowly bitten, I wanted to yell out my mind, but it all seeped inwards, I was boring myself with my own pleas.
It got better, as it does get better, as you know no better and I sunk into my life, I slowly enjoyed its offerings, I adjusted to the climate, to the people and one day as I walked outside my new flat―not mine of course, but my temporary abode that I rented, as I took out the garbage on a autumn Saturday―in my pyjamas, with the TV and the glow of comfort, I looked at the grey, I sucked it in and I quite enjoyed it―it's romantic quality, it's gloom appealed to me, as it would eventually with my nature. I liked it. I went inside, and shivered―a content chill, I enjoyed the cold and the idea of being able to get warm and I lay on the couch with my toes under a cushion, an inane program keeping me entertained. It all grows on you.
I went home, eventually. I spent five months appreciating the beauty, the climate, the content natures surrounding me. I ate healthy food, I listened to a language I had forgotten about, I roamed on farms that were not mine, went to wine harvests, put on high factors to shield out the sun, spend days lamenting the heat. But, it was not time, I was unable to indulge as the city, London, was still with me, my love and loathing relationship was still continuing, I was still meant to be there, whether unhappy or not. I could not explain it, it's not the city I suppose, it's me-I need to be content. I left, I left what I love so much, no great epiphany, just not at that moment. One day home will come to me, or I will go to home and I await the knowledge in peace.
