I’ve forgotten that this house was a home because it never was. It all feels strange now. To go back to the place you never got to call your home. It almost feels more like a foreign land. I didn’t miss a thing in this house. Only the altar, the sunsets, the wind and the trees. Everything is nothing to me now. Everyone. All I remember in this place was trauma and horror. And the only thing that made me happy was to sit in our right-wing balcony. It made me forget for a while. Now that I’m here again, I realised I was the only person who made me happy. I was the only human who helped myself in the days I didn’t want to get out of bed, or eat a healthy meal or work out.
I’m angry. I’m irritated. Agitated. Uncomfortable. Life is waving at me. But I can’t do pretty much about it. Maybe Stephen Covey was right. We don’t see the world as it is, we see it as we are. The heavens are painted in lively colors now. Sad, I couldn’t be like it. I can’t be myself now. I have to put on that mask again. I have to pretend. I have to. It’s crazy to be transported again in a place of misery and coldness. It still lingers now, all of it. The days. The nights. I wanted something, someone, to hold onto and found no one.
How do I forgive? How do I forgive the people I love?
