Homeless

In the numerous times I have found myself to be on my own, I have discerned that I don't really know how to be truly alone.

I whole-heartedly invest myself into people, to the point that I attempt to morph our souls together.

For most, I have to know their thoughts, their fears, their dreams, how they feel. I must be around them in my spare time. I set up living quarters in the farthest corners of their mind and I often can not sleep unless I'm looking through their windows. Are they foggy? Could they do with a bit of a clean? Are they dirty because of me? I can not rest until I am certain.

I think about what it's like to be them and try to think of it as if I'm going through it myself. The experience of it all, I find to be a beautiful one.

It keeps me busy this hobby of mine. It's an art form, one of observation. I spend a great deal of time studying their skin, their patterns, their facial expressions, their colloquialisms. Knowing what makes them tick, what brings them joy and what can tear them down. I take pride in being emotionally in-tune with the people that I care about.

It's when they no longer wish for my concern or my company that I begin to feel my own sentiments, and it is normally one of panic.

I have made my home within them and I can feel when they start to distance themselves from me- the ground shakes and the walls quiver. I fight to keep my ground most times. But, inevitably, I am always evicted.

I take my emotional baggage (and some of theirs) and I'm forced to retreat back within myself with nothing but my skeletons in my own closets to keep me company until I can convince another vacant soul that they could use some warmth.

Recently, I found myself on my own again, and this time I decided to learn how to be okay with it.

For now, I am homeless, trying to create a home out of my shell that was once my body.

They say your body is a temple, but I'm not sure I could turn a temple into a home. I do not wish for a mansion or a condo or even a quaint shack near the beach. I wish for nothing more than sturdy walls and roof that will not cave in on me after the first storm. I wish for at least one room that contains a source of warmth for me to retreat to when outside is just too cold. I need a bed that enables a good night sleep and a rested soul and a closet where I shove all of my fears and insecurities - never to be opened again. I want a garden where I can plant the seeds of my hopes and dreams, so that they might grow to be fruitful.

Until I have this, I will turn on the lights and get the gears cranking again. I will light a fire in a few of my darker, colder corners until even the neighbours and the passersby can feel my warmth. I will plant some flowers into that garden in my mind and let them bloom from my hands into works of art. I will get rid of the cobwebs in my eyes and allow myself to really see through my own windows again. I'll slowly move the countless boxes of painful memories out and move beautiful ones in. I'll dismiss any unwanted guests and let my family and friends inside to stay awhile.

I want to be okay with myself and I want to inhabit a body and mind that I am proud of, instead of finding this security solely in other people. Eventually, I will have room for someone else. Then, and only then, will I share my space with someone else. I will, by then, have learned how to come and go as I please, and to never have to feel like I must never leave their side for fear of being abandoned once more.

We will tend to our gardens and our fires and fluff our pillows and dust our shelves. Together, we will have a home so rich and warm that I will not even remember what it was like to be so cold.

It'll be a lengthy process. There will be tears to mop and shatters to clean up, but it'll be of my own accord and I'll be happy in that fact alone. I can no longer neglect myself.

I say I am homeless, but in reality, I just have some renovating to do.