I may be this thing,
you call human
I am composed of flesh
but my thoughts are deceiving:
‘ Homeless. ’
‘ Houseless. ‘
Usually, these folks have no house, or abode. To label them ‘homeless’ strips them of their home, which could the crotch of their lover, the pew of a church or the alleyway behind the 7-11.
Sometimes I wonder how little care I would have if there were no bills, or nothing to pay, or no one to show my scheduled day. My to do list would not include any institution or person that I didn’t want to interact with and no one would hold me accountable. The epitome of freedom, to pursue your own happiness, feels like the homeless/houseless lifestyle. It’s like the modern day homesteading. They are the new version of white settlers and we home dwellers are the native peoples who once inhabited the land. They are waiting to stake their claim in the spot where we eventually ignore or tolerate them. Only this time, the script is flipped and the Natives win, seeing as the rights of the home dwellers are upheld and protected more than the vagrants’.
The fantasy is a hard draw, like the light to my moth eyes and when it comes close, I realize that the distance from the bulb/the living room with my coffee table, is the comfort I actually want.