I am a man without a home. I live in this city. I enjoy its company, its textures, its bright days and stormy nights. I have glorious brick walls and huge windows and ancient wood floors. I stumble across beauty with equal frequency as always. And it is in the response to this beauty that I find what I am missing. For at the moment that my heart swell should be pouring from the top of my head like a fount, I hear but a squeak. Life should be Godzilla crashing through the walls, but it is only a mouse hiding in the corner of the closet.
I am a man without a home. I am displaced. I know many who are misplaced. We gather around, our damaged souls nod quietly. We will be here, we will be together, but we will never be home. Its pieces are strewn around the globe. A living room in Europe. A kitchen in Asia. A bedroom in Australia.
I read her words of happiness, of being at the center, of freedom. I wonder if they equal being happy, centered, and free. I read her words of it, as if it was a thing that happened to us, a weather event, an invading nation, a hostile takeover. Such detachment. I wonder how they do that.
I’m at a door, and while it feels just a step or two away, no matter how many steps I take it remains just that step or two away.
It is like I’m in an endless hallway, and each door leads to a different time, but so many of them lead to a past life. I keep opening them, but I keep seeing the past. And I so desperately wish for that door that opens to things of which I do not already know.