Home used to be about softness, warmth, an enveloping blanket, a delight in the safety of inwardness and an affirmation that all what came before was right to deliver us here. All of our past hostages worth saving disarmed and corralled into boxes labeled “memories”; our struggles were known and of our own making.
This place and all of its artifacts are changed.
orbiting thoughts and their ripples move back and forward and laterally into that begin sweet but cruelly contort and fade at such a minimal distance. retreat in all directions from my clumsy and tired body and draw my attention as I fight to remain present. no fucking way; I lack the discipline and without a thing underfoot that isn’t so unbearably room temperature a swarm to never have a place of permanence and certainly not a home but I’m saving all the space nonetheless