Cleaning out blog drafts # 2-October in a house.

This is my first October in a house. 20 some years ago, there were other Octobers in houses; foggy memories of pumpkin lined porches, crunchy leaves to rake, the prospective of trick-or-treaters ringing a doorbell, and those other nuances between neighborhoods and complexes. So many Octobers convinced that life would somehow be improved with a backyard, doorbell, and mailbox. Nearly a year in this house and cannot escape the crashing reality that brokenness is not a result of square feet. I should light a cigarette. This career, this money, this space, do I want it? I had deceived myself that tangibles were at fault for hardship. The dollar bills and blue prints are innocent. Have I spent all this time aiming to achieve a false contentment?