Nowhere

Home.
An ambiguous term.

I've been standing here in the cold dark air for ten minutes now.
The door stands immediately before my eyes.
Key held in my left palm.
Shoulders tense and sore.
All it take is one step.
And a simple motion of insert and turn.
Yet I felt stiff.
I kept on staring,
as though I knew there was a monster behind
impatiently awaits
to devour me
to swallow me whole.

I'm homeless.

The idea of a home
Not defined by an address
It's a sanctuary
A privileged place to be.

I've been housesitting for a friend.
More precisely, my task was to feed the lone fish once a day,
and to answer the door should a carrier attempt to deliver any deadly parcel.
Without consent,
I made myself at home.
I took showers, watched television, read books and slept.
I kept the fish alive while it kept me accompanied.
In attempt to avoid invasion of privacy,
I managed, for the most part,
to leave every single thing as it was.
Shall a piece of trash come in my way,
no matter how obivous and easy it would be to - out of habit - to pick up,
I would gracefully step over it.
I can't help, though, but to imagine how this place would look like if I were to tidy it up,
add a few personal touches.
Clearly, in spite of all my mental effort, this momentary escape is no place to claim home.

The room
Four thin walls
Brown stained carpet
Saggy matress
Unclean sheets
How it smells
Unfamiliarites left my body restless.
Unable to sleep.
I missed my bed.
How it has the power to hold me down through the hours.


This house is not a home
I think I'm better off alone


060420050336