On being welcomed by all things inanimate

The clock on the dining room table would tick and then tock, and sometimes the water pipes murmured, and the feet from the unit above would pitter and patter. The bathroom shower would drip some water slowly, and in the bedroom, the light would hum quietly. The refrigerator would sit humbly and offer a safe haven to the food that I bought with my money that I would cook every night for myself. The light would shine in through the front window and offer the carpet a blanket all to his own. Even the breeze had a way of dancing along the edge of the black leather love seat. There were no words. No comfort of human interaction. No vibrations of the throat or the way it had its affect on the walls. I was alone and in some ways vulnerable, susceptible to losing my cool (or my mind.)

I miss the way home felt to me. I miss the way having my own home felt to me.

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