Constantly removing things to make space in this existence.
Shedding, always shedding,
But never quite letting go.
Prolonging the agony, the discomfort, the guilt of possessing.
Continually repeating the cycle of loss.
Again and again and again.
Put a delicious lid on it,
Until it bursts messily all over the page
and all that remains is sadness
Is another piece of the jigsaw at odds with the rest of the world.
It feels like once I shed these things I could finally find freedom
But what is this freedom I seek?
Where is it?
I keep moving around,
settling in car park after car park,
village after village,
town after town,
country after country…
Only one feels like home.
Why must home be only one?
Why can’t it be there, and there, and over there or there?
There’s a world out there and I want to be in it.
Why is the feeling of home entwined with the feeling of suffocating, of being trapped, of settling for something less.
This world is huge and I have seen little beyond the confines of my own possessions.
The confines of my own mind.
Of the people I have known, I have loved, that have left.
Each item somehow holds a personality, a journey, a struggle.
An old friend inside, and the thought of letting go each time near kills me,
But I can’t stop, it’s all too much.
Unnecessary things that perpetuate this lifecycle
that perpetuate a life that will remain nothing but an existence.
Nothing but minutes ticking by.
Nothing but a long line of connected thoughts.
That lead only to mania, obsession.
Because a gap is a gap is a gap,
Is full of fear,
Is full of unknown.