Western Mass

Western Massachusetts inspires in me deep feelings. Feelings of being surrounded by intellectuals, of people who want the best for other people. There are trees so ripe with green color that their unfiltered light puts a halo over you. The sun shines so brightly as to ease every pain you have; the seasons are turbulent but a part of being, ultimately, alive.

My father's light yellow house is a haven of peace for me. I can sit on his couch for hours, listening to the sounds of a few Prius' driving by his window on his quiet street; the garden outside casts dusty shadows in shining light. The smell there is even a pleasant odor of flowers, and stepping outside of his house is to be greeted by something more natural than anything else.

Something bigger than yourself is at play here, and while the winters are a brutal downfall of foot after foot of snow, you come to love the snowflakes. The air is crisp and untainted. You come to appreciate the snowfall when you are inside a cozy home with everything cancelled; it is the freedom of being a New Englander, even if it's February and you want nothing more than that summertime magic.

But of course the summertime comes eventually, and it's suddenly August - and the downtown a bustling epicenter of hippies and almost-students, and you find yourself wondering when you can settle down here. For while there's not much going on but the incredible nature, the quiet life inspires a feeling of comfort that cannot be replaced by anything else.

Western Massachusetts is a haven I can come back to. And to be homesick? Always.

But I know it's waiting for me and its stark beauty follows me, wherever I go.