"I'm Not at Home in My Own Home"

I walked around examing each room. Touching everything
gently, running my fingers along edges.

The home was very lived-in. Ver cozy. I spent most of my
time in his room. But the room that stood out the most to me was the living
room. It was a small space, kind of dark. I loved the feeling of it. The
most cozy, the most lived in room. On the coffee table was an ash tray,
probably a mountain of ashes, and a truck load of cigarettes. I detest
cigarettes. The smell. The smoke. Wrapping its hands around my neck, and
choking me.

But somehow, this time was welcoming. It made me love the
family without knowing them. Just the feeling of their home. The living room.
I wanted to stay there, with my thoughts. I kept feeling everything without
touching anything. Photographing the room, taking everything in with my eyes.
Drawing it over in my mind. Painting the picture with my words. Through my
writing...



I always go home, and wonder why my place isn't as homey.
Why I felt at home in a stranger's house, but my own home feels strange.