Where is my Home?

Illness brings little pockets of empty time. Since time is measured with productivity, these are some zero hours where there is no productive outcome. When you add all the fragments, these are the times that will not be counted. But I have used this time to think. 

I am down with flu so I utilized this time to celebrate the sadness. Do some crying. Feel a little nostalgic because I am leaving the house I lived in for 25 years of my life. So much of Romanticism about the train tracks next to my house that comes to a stop. Societal address takes over your existential address no matter how aware you are. I imagined myself to be devastated with the thought of leaving this house. Except that I am not. All my friend(s) have been worried about me leaving this house will make me the saddest person on the Earth. Because I was poetic like that and romanticized every traumatic broken wall of this box. I am not sad. Do I realize I have already started calling it out as this house and not my home? All the walls of this house are colored with hate and tiny moments of love which I and my mother have tried to cover up with posters, photo frames and what not. The stale trauma lives like a dead body from Poe's poetry in between the pain and the frames. I am not sad I am leaving because the new residents will build new walls even if they don't break the old ones. 

The new house we will be moving to is a much smaller one. All white washed like a new freshly done canvas with the probability of new stories which can hopefully be happy. But that house might not feel like a home too. Who knows?

Until then, I am Homeless. 

Legally I have a house. 

But even the most freed soul seeks for an address.