We leave bits and pieces of our soul in every place we live – every room, every apartment, every house. The walls seem to catch our memories and the windows our farthest dreams, squares of possible escape lining our homes that keep us in as we keep looking out.
The tall coniferous trees that seem to feel our presence and understand our thoughts as we whisper them inside our head – looking back at us with the angst of watching yet another tenant leave as they stay rooted in the ground, hanging on to the stability the resident craves for while hoping to be able leave with the next.
The routes that can be traced between the lines in our palms, lines that don’t tell us our future but rather carry engravings of our past, dug in with the same angst of separating from yet another square-metre set of space that felt too small or too big, and definitely too strange when we first moved in. With furniture that doesn’t wholly belong to us and monthly payments into someone else’s life of stability that slowly bleed into our lives, we create an ephemeral sense of belonging.
“I feel like I’ve lived here for years and yet, I haven’t”
Until we move into yet another apartment, fix another broken sink, and build another adult-lego-style component for storing more of our things, unknowing that we’re also leaving bits and pieces of our soul behind.