Home

I had this very strong urge over the past two days: so strong I nearly said it aloud to Boyfriend, not even knowing what it meant.



I want to go home.


Strange, isn't it? I don't have a home. I'm homeless. Yes, I have a place to live. I have a bed to sleep in and a roof that keeps the rain off of my head. I have all the things I need to exist.


I say that I don't have a home because where I live is not home. It is the place where I sleep at night. Boyfriend's place is even farther from being home- as when I am there, I can only faintly dream of going to such a place that could be called home. The house where I grew up is quite the opposite of home, and it feels more like an enemy camp than a place of warmth and love. Even during my last stint living in the building, I just kept thinking (or being told, it's all rather blurry) that I was a guest: this place was not mine.


I suppose I just would like some comfort. I fully believe that family and home are what you make them. Home doesn't have to be where you were raised, and family absolutely doesn't have to be who shares similar DNA. I consider Male Roommate and Female Roommate to be more of my family than my physical parents ever were, but yet: this is not home.


I kind of become depressed in the moments when I seek to be at home. It's usually accompanied by the urge to run into my mother's arms. Not my mother, that is. A mother. A warm, loving, welcome hug of respite and care. No worries, there. You're home. Away from the weary slavery of life.



So, it seems strange to me (and perhaps a bit lucky) that my biological mother did send an email to me...and I read it (against the urgings of Male Roommate). I know why he tells me to delete those emails- I always become an angry recluse, firing hateful poetry onto innocent pages. I keep repeating, aloud, that I find the fact that she is totally clueless as to the source of my anger both insulting, and probably the reason for the perpetuation of my anger. I find it lucky that on the very day that I find myself frail enough in spirit to consider placing a call...in hopes of finding this elusive home, that I'm reminded of why I am homeless, and why every time I seek that kind of comfort, it only lasts but a fleeting moment before another wave of bitterness crashes over the whole set.


I mean that- it is a set. We are players with rehearsed lines. Forgot to memorize your lines? Or, perhaps you memorized them, and don't care to live out a pre-scripted and pre-approved life. Perhaps you are happier not being a pawn. Outcast! Anger!



...depression.



I often feel the tuggings of such a depression, and I often fear that I might fall in the hole, again. I think that's why I don't ever leave Boyfriend: inasmuch as he relies on me to soothe his afflictions, I find that being needed and wanted soothes mine. I may feel ignored at times, but never cast away. He's never going to tell me I am naught but a guest in his home, life. I'm not relying on him to keep myself out of depression, no...I just know that the first sign that I'm tumbling into that awful pit will be when I tell him we can't be together. It will be the precise moment that I decide that I want to be alone.


Isn't that the first sign that I'm in trouble: refusing the contact of others? I don't want them to see me like this, emotionally frail, physically week, mentally listless. I don't want anyone to catch that horrible, horrible feeling of laying in the cesspool of one's own life. And life is that: a cesspool. You life, subjected to the rulings and arbitrations of others, only to die, and face the uncertainty of rulings and arbitrations from another. How can you not feel as though it would be best to live the life of an animal, oblivious to your subjection meaningless maxims. You live, you eat, you fuck, you shit. Eventually, you die, maybe. Probably. Who knows? Who cares? There is life to be lived, food to be eaten, others to fuck and waste to shit.

Are humans just animals who have forgotten the point of living? We look at our companions and laugh at their stupidity, but shouldn't our laughs be turned inward? Shouldn't we focus on our own pointless obsession with the unimportant tassels of life?


The point of all of this miring is: I feel strange in my own being, like I woke up one day in a totally foreign existence. I look at my things, the people around me, my situation, and think Who am I? Where am I? Why do I want so desperately to torch everything, from the distant memories to the chair I am sitting in? Will releasing fire onto everything quell my rage, infinite sadness?


I suppose I don't do it because I'm fairly certain, the fire wouldn't cleanse, rather, I would find my condition much deteriorated.