Home. What is home? I thought I had a home years ago, but I realized it was just a house, a mentally empty house. Yes, there are five of us, but it’s still an empty house.
There are some laughs that quickly turn into fights. Sometimes, silences so heavy they suffocate me, even if there are no sounds. And sometimes there are fights, real fights, endless, between everyone.
I thought I had a home ; turns out it was just a building, trying to hold us all.
My parents have some… a lot of regrets, I think. My brothers try hard to distract themselves and think about something else. And here I am, lost in between. I don’t know if I want to scream, cry, sleep, or just breathe. I feel like I’m living with strangers in my house. We talk, we laugh, we fight, but I don’t see a family, just a bunch of strangers trying to remember why they are living together.
My home for now is my bed. I’m always stuck with it, my comfort place, my safe place. My safe place which is also toxic. I don’t want to leave my bed to encounter the strangers from my house. However, I want to leave my bed. I want to run away from being still all day, empty, distracting myself endlessly. I want to leave my bed, but every time I do, I miss it. No one bothers me in it, no one gives me orders. There is no one, no sounds, no fights, no heavy silences. Just me, my headphones, and my bed, all day long, every day, forever…