home has always been a non-place, a gateway to the next "home", a place to stay overnight, even if for many nights that became years. but when I wake up from the dream of having my walls and stains on the ceiling, outside there is always fog.
unlike the mist that descends like a wave over the hill, this one is dense. prevents movement, does not let my tired eyes see the next stop.
I remember the view from my first home, where someone stole who I was. from my bed I could see the roof. Sometimes I sat there, being a little 5-year-old girl, sitting on the red tiles and admiring the deep blue sky. I remember thinking that maybe one day I could fly away.
at my second stop, I had to look at the fence, the ones that prevent the violence from entering, outhought it slept in the next room.
I flew from there, crossed a hill and made a nest at its foot. In that house of green carpet and pink bathroom, I discovered what solitude was. But the lights and colors persisted and a transmission tower flashed its light in Morse code for me, telling me stories about my future, so I could sleep peacefully. I was also taken from there, my life was like its walls: not cared enought, cold. but at least there I could hear the river’s sound.
In this one they said it was not a passage. I lost my view, but they said the roof was ours. And it was to it that I looked for years, when I didn't want to get out of bed, when I heard the screams, when I cried in my own bed just wishing to go home. the roof had square shadows made from the lights of other windows, perfect and symmetrical, they complemented me and my imperfection. as everything I ever own, the house were her to take, it has never been mine.
the promises were always empty and full of resentment, as were the houses when I left. a large room filled with nothing. what once existed, and what could've happened there. the possibilities. the rage.
I'll take everything and put it in my suitcase: the tiles, the blue, the fences, the lights in the hill, the shadows on the ceiling, promises, spite and possibilities. I'll take them to another place. the morning fog does not allow me to see yet, but it has dawned. and the memories and I deserve a new view.
theartofmadeline
kaledo-art
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
janainaart
jacobvanloon
2087
