I write today fairly certain my relationship has ended. If not in the affirmed sense of mutual agreement, it is my physical condition today. I am drained and reluctant to reach out as I replay the realization he took all his belongings. He did forget one shirt however. A lulling phantasm of my own thoughts arose this morning. The bitterness of the conflict still stings, but I indulge in the feeling of stillness and the way my inner phenomenons feel different. I sense my direction towards creativity, the artistic project I seem to forget in the chaos of school, work and this relati0nshio. Reminded of the peace of solitude, I still reguritate my fear of being alone. There is a larger part of me that does not want to back, that genuinely cannot return in my current afterstate of the last argument. I find no way to move forward today and certainly feel my thoughts - he calls me. I feel different.
The home is the narrator. The narrator is the home. The home has eyes and sees it all. So much so that the ones who live in it belong to its universe. The people who live in there each have diferent stakes within its walls. What they do in and with the space is a langeuage from their bidy. The tenant rents next to the garage. Here plants and her hair seem to grow faster ever since she moved there. She has not kitchen which makes things messier and cleaner at the same time.
When the home sees her the home tends to judge her immobility. She is so constructed by her mind, so haunted by its labrynth - the disconnect from her body escalates. The landlord is an old man by the sea. a mother of two who works for the city. her lover lives in the trees, her lover is a neighboring student.