The radiator hisses, spits and spurts – a welcomed white noise. A pile of moving boxes and suitcases is stacked and ready for the movers who are coming to take them just two miles down the road. To my new life.
My new life. My new life. My new life.
Another day in my new life.
But it doesn’t feel like a new life. It just feels like I’m floating. Like I don’t belong here, or anywhere.
Homeless – a state of being. Between homes. Without a home.
Everyone else’s life continues. I feel slow. Everything has slowed down. Life isn’t fast anymore. I have time to think and process and move and it’s very slow.
Where I am now, in this apartment, it feels empty and weird and different, but it still feels like I’m supposed to be here. I’ve lived here for a year and a half. This couch is soft where it’s supposed to be and everything is ours and I remember love here and can see us eating dinners and making breakfasts and laughing and fucking and crying and sleeping and dressing.
I want this night to last forever. I don’t want to wake up and leave. I wonder if I’ll sleep tomorrow night? Or will I just lie awake and feel the weirdness of my new “home” and cry and shake and wander around and turn on lights and turn them off and look out the window at the shitty view and surf the internet and take two pills instead of one and wake up with chest pain from anxiety.