House

When I got here, when I off the train, walked the long walk to the front door, when I turned the key and stepped in, my heart faltered and the beast wriggled in delight. I felt like I was opening the box of the world’s ills. If I had a choice I’d shut the lid and leave it here forever. Home is so sad, is what Larkin said ‘shaped to the comfort of the last to go’ well in this case, it isn’t. Its shifted furniture; moved in new televisions and hi-fi’s; the doors open differently; some doors are locked; my room is nothing more than a music studio. I feel like weeping for that now disbanded ‘joyful shot at how things ought to be’. Gone is the home, this is the house.
I’ve tried to think of where home is. Where my heart is, or longs for. I love Bath, but it isn’t a home. This is a world of sorrows and I’m a wandering kid without the wanderlust to enjoy it. How do they know how I feel? These people who tell me that it’ll be ok. If they did; they wouldn’t lie to me, they’d understand that the longer I stay here, the less ‘here’ I am, the more ‘elsewhere’ the more ‘anywhere’ I become. There is only so much absence you can handle, before you start to fade physically.