HOUSE

 November 9th, 2025

It hit me like a ton of bricks today that 2026 is a mere 53 days away.

That's more than half of the decade I've lived through,

Next Summer, that'll be half of my twenties I've gone through,

 I remember being eighteen, just leaving the town I "grew" up in, 

The town that I refused to make a home out of, 

I felt at that age that I was just on the precipice of my life. 

Telling myself that made the negative experiences so much more bearable -

I could accept those circumstances if I felt I had a chance to overcome them.

Today, I asked myself if I'd lived at all. I know I've been alive, but I do not think I've lived at all.

It made me feel sad, because I feel as though I've been forced into a house I didn't build.

A house I didn't agree to inhabit. 

For the past six years, I've been going through each room, finding so many locked doors, 

 I have no keys, I'm just going door to door trying to see what opens.

It doesn't feel like my house. I don't remember it being my home.

I stuck around for a bit, telling myself someone would pick me up. 

That it wasn't forever, and that when the car pulled up out front,

I wouldn't take anything with me - that I'd walk out of that front door.

That I wouldn't even look back behind me. 

It's been six years, and I'm still in that house. 

It's not the home I've chosen, but it's all I've ever known. 

I haven't known a moment of comfort here. 

I keep my ear to the wall, waiting to hear the car pull up out front to come get me. 

I didn't make myself at home, but now I'm making a bed for myself.

I want to feel comfortable while I wait, surely this is not my home. 

I'm renovating, while I wait. 

I put up some curtains, for warmth and for privacy.

I lit a candle, for the warmth, and the light. 

I cleaned it as best as could, to keep out any pests.

I've grown to know it, though it's not familiar.

I know the makings of this house - the windows, the entrance.

The doors left unlocked, I've walked into those rooms halfheartedly - 

I've studied the space and noted what I liked and disliked in it. 

I'm taking stock of what I'm capable of renovating

It's not much, this is not my house after all.

I'm simply passing through - I'm waiting until the car comes for me. 

It's taking longer than I expected, but I know I'll be picked up

I have a clock, so I know what time it is.

One of these days, the car will come and I'll sprint out through the front door.

I never wanted to be here in the first place! 

It's not my home, and I won't accept a house I didn't build. 

But after so long, my curtains are up,

My candles are lit, my fingerprints are on all of the doorknobs, 

The bed I made for myself is here, the sheets smell like my skin,

If the car ever comes, am I deserting a home I created?

If I created this house and it still doesn't feel like my own,

Am I to blame?

Did I accidently misplace the keys? Is that why I don't feel at home?

Please God, don't let the driver forget about me,

I don't want to remain in this house I didn't build. 

My home is a cool spacious loft,

I have a cat, a rabbit, and the place is my own. 

I burn incense every night, and listen to my music under my covers.

My home is warm, the doors remain unlocked,

I have keys for each of them. 

I built it for me. 

I wasn't just picked and plopped into it,

But I was plot here and I don't know why.

I just know better than to make this my home.

Why am I here? 

What have I done? 

How do I get out? 

Why am I stuck in this ugly house I didn't build? 

- vetiveroil