My nice, neat, flaming little shit

It’s the first time that you try to navigate your way to the bathroom in the dark that you realize, this is not my old apartment, this is not even my transition farmhouse I was living at, but this, this is my new apartment. It comes with a variety of new trials such as figuring our how to close doors that won’t due to cheap painters globbing on another layer of white gloss. Or, then there’s the toilet seat which most definitely doesn’t feel like home. In fact that might even be made solely out of plastic and in need of desperate replacement.

Of course, once you sit out on the balcony as the sun goes down and the lights in the market across the street that they’re renovating come up, you know that you’ve found home. It’s never perfect and honestly, if it were, you’d be living in the display models of Ikea, on show as some form of human zoo. Things need to be a little broken, a little old, and a little bit from the 19th century and glorious to feel like a place you can call home and actually welcome guests with a bed that doesn’t consist of a blow up mattress on the floor.

One Reply to “My nice, neat, flaming little shit”

  1. It will fill like home soon as long as you let your heart feel at home. Take it from me my friend I’ve been moving from house to house, country to country almost all my life. It was never perfect but it was my little bubble of safety hovering above the world.

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