One day you have a home and the next you don’t, but I’m not going to tell you my particular reasons for being homeless. Oh, alright, if you insist. You see, I used to have a house.
I bought the land. I bought the materials. I built the house myself. A modest two-story, painted white with a blue trim. It had its own garden and patio. The stepping stones were cement, which I mixed myself, and decorated with colorful rock mosaics, which I set myself. I chopped, sawed, and sanded the wood that became my picked fence, which I painted white. Inside was furniture that I got from Ikea.
But above the fireplace was a painting which I painted in my younger days. It was a stormy sea, but on the horizon was a tiny sun trying its best to bring clear skies with it.
I even cooked and cleaned for myself. I lived with myself.
But one day, I threw myself out. If you had seen the way I was acting, you would have done it, too. To get back at myself for throwing me out, I sold everything to a nice family. Then, I gave away the money so that my cheating self wouldn’t get it.
The last time I saw myself, I’m sorry to say, I was living on the streets. It was pathetic, really, how I took to scavenging. I searched other people’s trash. I took other people’s money. I took other people’s charity. My clothes were rags I found on the street. The boundary that marked my space was a bit of white chalk I had found in the park. My furniture was Ikea boxes. Sometimes I found change. I used it to buy candy bars. Even homeless, I didn’t give up the sweets.
Well, if I had it in me to be a bum all along, I’m glad I threw myself out before I ruined my life.
Can you imagine, living with someone who can’t ever help themself? So I looked away and didn’t seek me out again.
First, I had to find a new place to live. It turned out I still had money in a bank account that I neglected to tell myself about.
Second, I had to see about finding work. Without me hounding me all day, I could finally find something that I wanted to do.
Third, I needed to meet people. Make friends.
I talked to this girl. She didn’t like what I said. She didn’t like what I did. She didn’t like what I thought. It could only have been after I became homeless that I could have seen where she was coming from. I was still in the habit of being self-centered, but I was working on it.
I talked to this guy. He answered my questions. I answered his questions. He said, yeah, don’t you hate it when you’re your own worst enemy?
Amen, brother, I told him. Sometimes you have to kick yourself out of the house before you can fit in society.
Yeah, he said. Sometimes I drive others crazy.
Yeah, I told him. Sometimes I drive myself crazy. But not anymore.
Oh? How so? He asked me.
Well, I answered him, nobody’s home.
He grinned. Yeah, the bachelor’s life for you. Living by yourself aint so bad, is it?
Single, I clarified. Living single aint so bad, no.
I had a buddy. His name was Tim. He worked in the same office as me. He helped me look better in front of the girl I had tried talking to earlier.
This guy, he had said to her, is a self-made man. He knows how to handle himself.
No, I had corrected him sheepishly. No, nothing like that. I’m just trying to get my life in order. Nothing more, nothing less.
She looked at me with interest, as if she saw potential.
That night, I went home. Nobody was home. I kinda enjoyed it, but I couldn’t help thinking that without myself taking up so much space, that it didn’t quite feel like home, like I was still homeless. It was just an apartment, built by a company and decorated with mismatched furniture from garage sales. It could use someone else, someone else’s touch, I thought. Someone not me.
I got invited to go out with my co-workers. We went bowling. We went dancing. We talked and chatted and joked. They gave me high-fives. I gave them ears and smiles. Towards the end, I was holding somebody’s hand. Somebody’s hand, not mine. And it was really nice, because I was tired of living by myself.
I bought the land. I bought the materials. I built the house myself. A modest two-story, painted white with a blue trim. It had its own garden and patio. The stepping stones were cement, which I mixed myself, and decorated with colorful rock mosaics, which I set myself. I chopped, sawed, and sanded the wood that became my picked fence, which I painted white. Inside was furniture that I got from Ikea.
But above the fireplace was a painting which I painted in my younger days. It was a stormy sea, but on the horizon was a tiny sun trying its best to bring clear skies with it.
I even cooked and cleaned for myself. I lived with myself.
But one day, I threw myself out. If you had seen the way I was acting, you would have done it, too. To get back at myself for throwing me out, I sold everything to a nice family. Then, I gave away the money so that my cheating self wouldn’t get it.
The last time I saw myself, I’m sorry to say, I was living on the streets. It was pathetic, really, how I took to scavenging. I searched other people’s trash. I took other people’s money. I took other people’s charity. My clothes were rags I found on the street. The boundary that marked my space was a bit of white chalk I had found in the park. My furniture was Ikea boxes. Sometimes I found change. I used it to buy candy bars. Even homeless, I didn’t give up the sweets.
Well, if I had it in me to be a bum all along, I’m glad I threw myself out before I ruined my life.
Can you imagine, living with someone who can’t ever help themself? So I looked away and didn’t seek me out again.
First, I had to find a new place to live. It turned out I still had money in a bank account that I neglected to tell myself about.
Second, I had to see about finding work. Without me hounding me all day, I could finally find something that I wanted to do.
Third, I needed to meet people. Make friends.
I talked to this girl. She didn’t like what I said. She didn’t like what I did. She didn’t like what I thought. It could only have been after I became homeless that I could have seen where she was coming from. I was still in the habit of being self-centered, but I was working on it.
I talked to this guy. He answered my questions. I answered his questions. He said, yeah, don’t you hate it when you’re your own worst enemy?
Amen, brother, I told him. Sometimes you have to kick yourself out of the house before you can fit in society.
Yeah, he said. Sometimes I drive others crazy.
Yeah, I told him. Sometimes I drive myself crazy. But not anymore.
Oh? How so? He asked me.
Well, I answered him, nobody’s home.
He grinned. Yeah, the bachelor’s life for you. Living by yourself aint so bad, is it?
Single, I clarified. Living single aint so bad, no.
I had a buddy. His name was Tim. He worked in the same office as me. He helped me look better in front of the girl I had tried talking to earlier.
This guy, he had said to her, is a self-made man. He knows how to handle himself.
No, I had corrected him sheepishly. No, nothing like that. I’m just trying to get my life in order. Nothing more, nothing less.
She looked at me with interest, as if she saw potential.
That night, I went home. Nobody was home. I kinda enjoyed it, but I couldn’t help thinking that without myself taking up so much space, that it didn’t quite feel like home, like I was still homeless. It was just an apartment, built by a company and decorated with mismatched furniture from garage sales. It could use someone else, someone else’s touch, I thought. Someone not me.
I got invited to go out with my co-workers. We went bowling. We went dancing. We talked and chatted and joked. They gave me high-fives. I gave them ears and smiles. Towards the end, I was holding somebody’s hand. Somebody’s hand, not mine. And it was really nice, because I was tired of living by myself.
This was an "exploration" for my seminar in fiction. So far all my explorations have been just that: experiments. None of the short stories I'm inclined to write : (
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