All these things
in a cycle of constant removal
finding a way to make space in this existence.
Shedding, always shedding,
But never quite letting go.
Prolonging the agony, the discomfort, the guilt
Repeating the cycle of loss.
Again and again and again.
I savour it.
Put a delicious lid on it,
until it bursts messily all over the page
and all that remains
is another piece of the jigsaw
at odds with the rest of the world.
Maybe if I shed these things I could finally find freedom
But what is freedom?
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 over there
There’s a world out there and I want to be in it.
Why is 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 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.