My home is rotten, my home is a tin can. My home is also where my heart is.
It takes at least 3 generations to break a family out of the poverty line. Something like that, I recall during one of my recent late night “reading” or “scrolling through my phone in the dark” sessions. The modern day equivalent of what one may have imagined as flipping through a book or a magazine just a decade ago.
This one little piece of information, as inoffensive as can be, brings me such great anxieties.
Do you ever live in fear of repeating the same exact mistakes you were born into?
I’m constantly at ends with myself. Constantly wondering if it’s just a self fulfilling prophecy. At the same time, I find myself longing for the irresponsible pastimes that I know would get me in the very same spot I’m so afraid of being in.
What truly matters in life? Is it being comfortable, having something people would be proud of?
Is it something else entirely, some other random thing that brings you personal joy? Or is it a number of things, the variety of experience itself that lends to you your happiness?
I’ve been so tired lately, and so sad, I am missing things. Im working my life away, and when I am not working I am trying my absolute best to turn something terrible into something beautiful- which can sometimes be a simple task but it gets quite complicated when that terrible something is a ruined home, and that beautiful thing is a restored, beautiful home.
It feels like I cannot rest and I am overwhelmed. I am 26 and I didn’t know this would happen to me and I am wholeheartedly overwhelmed.
I own this terrible home, or rather, this terrible home owns me.
I miss myself.