...it's always like this

I don't belong. There's no place to come back and everyday I try to build another home. I'm more confortable in my own: house, pace, peace.

The house where I was born was demolished some years ago. Today a building leaves no trace of what it was before. The ground where I made my first steps was levelled, removed, extinguished. And when I die no one will remember it ever existed.

The bedroom where I grew up is no longer mine. The bed I slept while looking to the stars in my windows was donated years ago. When I got out of my parents house they did not look back. The walls where I drew tiny drawings with pencil are neatly covered in white paint.

And all the houses I build before were nothing but temporary places. A place to come back from the night before. A place to rest and maybe make love. Home must be where the heart is, they say. All I know is I don't belong.

My memories fade in forgetful mist. The only place past is alive still. With every bit that is erased, a piece of it ceases to live.

I'm foreigner in a world I don't understand. The more I try the more I fail. I have no place to turn back. This home I try to build again, with remains of what may finally last.