Home, Sweet Home.
I am home again. I do not miss this place, yet it feels like I am bound to it. Destined to return to the place I used the debris of my life to build. This home does not have four corners. It is painted in the dullest shade of white and stained with grief and blood and all the things that remind you of who you used to be.
I think I might be schizophrenic, because at the corner of my eyes, I see the shadows of my dead dreams come back to life. I turn my head to catch a glimpse, but they’re too swift to disappear.
I have never wished so much to see a dead thing before now.
I am home again. My beautiful catastrophe is what I’d like to call it. It is the place I hate most but it is also everything I have ever wanted. Something to call my own.
I walk into the kitchen and sweep shattered glass from my path with my bare feet. They lied to you. They tell you “a broken plate can be glued back together, but the cracks will always show”. I am made of glass and everything that breaks. I have been thrown, shattered, broken. Yet you do not see any cracks. You say I am fragile, “What could you have possibly been through?”
My fragility has been laid bare on the floor and walked over without mercy. I screamed tirelessly for help but none came. I was made to crawl through thorns with my bare hands yet you say they're the softest palms you've ever touched. What do you know about broken things?
I reached for the fridge but found nothing worth eating. I hunger for stability, for peace, for a will to live. I have been starved of essential sustenance, but somehow I do not look malnourished.
I am home again. But this time I wouldn’t leave. Why search for better days when your better days are behind you?
What’s the point of reaching for the stars when they are all dead?
I believe I am the last of them, the last celestial–a dying star wandering inside this collapsing building. I have been drained of everything that reminds me of how powerful I was. The colour is being drained from the world but somehow I am the only one who sees it.
I led myself to what was supposed to be my bedroom, my safe haven. Come to think of it, it is a haven. But instead of keeping the chaos and burning of the world away from me, it keeps it from getting out. The fire is within. The chaos is me.
I am home again. I have led myself back to the thing that would destroy me. Maybe this is how it was always meant to be. Why should I resist the darkness when I was always meant to create it? I can finally stop running. I have found the answers I've been searching for.
This is my home. My mind. My madness.
I think I might be schizophrenic, because at the corner of my eyes, I see the shadows of my dead dreams come back to life. I turn my head to catch a glimpse, but they’re too swift to disappear.
I have never wished so much to see a dead thing before now.
I am home again. My beautiful catastrophe is what I’d like to call it. It is the place I hate most but it is also everything I have ever wanted. Something to call my own.
I walk into the kitchen and sweep shattered glass from my path with my bare feet. They lied to you. They tell you “a broken plate can be glued back together, but the cracks will always show”. I am made of glass and everything that breaks. I have been thrown, shattered, broken. Yet you do not see any cracks. You say I am fragile, “What could you have possibly been through?”
My fragility has been laid bare on the floor and walked over without mercy. I screamed tirelessly for help but none came. I was made to crawl through thorns with my bare hands yet you say they're the softest palms you've ever touched. What do you know about broken things?
I reached for the fridge but found nothing worth eating. I hunger for stability, for peace, for a will to live. I have been starved of essential sustenance, but somehow I do not look malnourished.
I am home again. But this time I wouldn’t leave. Why search for better days when your better days are behind you?
What’s the point of reaching for the stars when they are all dead?
I believe I am the last of them, the last celestial–a dying star wandering inside this collapsing building. I have been drained of everything that reminds me of how powerful I was. The colour is being drained from the world but somehow I am the only one who sees it.
I led myself to what was supposed to be my bedroom, my safe haven. Come to think of it, it is a haven. But instead of keeping the chaos and burning of the world away from me, it keeps it from getting out. The fire is within. The chaos is me.
I am home again. I have led myself back to the thing that would destroy me. Maybe this is how it was always meant to be. Why should I resist the darkness when I was always meant to create it? I can finally stop running. I have found the answers I've been searching for.
This is my home. My mind. My madness.
First time I read this, I was… conflicted. The prose is beautiful, yes. But there’s a cry for help, something deeper than the eyes can see. I was conflicted because such internalized pain, where does it stem from?
ReplyDeleteTake a look at this excerpt “the fire is within, the chaos is me”. There’s no way this doesn’t ring in bell. It’s introspective pessimism, or dare I call it nihilism? Yes, nihilism is a much better fit.
“This is my home” shows a casual acceptance of a murky mental state, a downright horrendous one. And one wonders where it stems from.
“What’s the point of reaching for the stars when they’re all dead?” And now we are thrown into existential philosophy, a turmoil unlike any other. The narrator is waist deep in despair. Hope doesn’t exist here. So, how did this all come about?
“I screamed tirelessly for help but none came” is the fulcrum of this narrative. The writer drowns, but no salvation came. So, despair sets in.
A beautiful story, albeit depressing. Which begs the question… can the past be changed? Or the present be remade?
Thank you for taking the time to read it. I'm happy it resonated with you.
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