I struggle with the fact that I don’t have a place that is mine. Ever since I had a job where I lived where I worked, I’ve been aware of how fleeting it is to have shelter. Whenever I lived in apartments, I had this feeling like I could get thrown out at any time. All I needed to do was miss a paycheck.
Thinking about this, I realize that I never lived in a place that was my own. I’ve always had homelessness at some point in my mind. It made sense to me because I never felt like I belonged anywhere. Or, I should say it makes sense to me because I still feel that way.
What has living like this done to me? Every once in a while I remind myself that I do not belong where I live. At any moment I can be gone, and it would make more sense than staying.
Maybe this is one of my deep-seated problems. Unlike the things that I grow, I’ve never been able to feel rooted in a place. There is no soil that is mine.
I wonder if that will ever change.