What a different feeling I have today than when I had my studying binges or my adrenaline rush for final exams, or even the sudden and utterly complete mental chaos of the first week of hols. A respite like this feels so strange, not like weekends--eyes of seven-day storms--but like . . . humm. I don't really feel like reaching for a metaphor for that one.

Attired in raggy jeans and one of my father's worn out shirts, I sternly reapply several escapist hairpins and . . . I hear an ever-familiar voice call me for supper. Strange, isn't it, how those voices I have heard all my life? Some people don't grow up with that one sameness--"Mom" doesn't have one voice, or maybe the entity that they attach to the concept of "mother" is voiceless and nameless and near-imaginary. Knowing what it is like to have that familiar a voice makes me deeply, deeply regret the pieces of human nature that let some people not have mothers . . . also makes me reconsider the ethics of enforced sterilisation:P But seriously, I want you to know what it is like to have that contented feeling I have when I hear the voices of my parents . . . Granted, not when they're annoyed (at me) or being particularly human:) but you know what I mean.

And that rambly bit has cost me an annoyed call, because she really was calling me for dinner . . .

*hightails it downstairs*