So I was given the idea that maybe making this blog a little bit more transparent. Sincere.
More of a “home”.
So I decided to share my latest fuck up with all of you beautiful people who take their time reading what I have to say.
So if you were keeping track with the older posts, I am of two homes:
Home No.1 and Home No.2
“See I left my mother’s heart,
See I left my father’s home
And I feel into a well of hope”
I am currently at Home No.2, but sadly, this home that I was set on building has fallen apart and burned to pieces.
And this is what I mean when I say that:
I signed a contract for an apartment with my roommate from last year. One that used to be a very very close friend to me.
This was a very shitty apartment, with the perfect location, basically in the center of our universes in this city.
And we signed this contract together, pledging to the fact that this apartment was very shitty, but that we’d make it into a “home”. We could do that.
Then came the day that we moved in, and while cleaning and setting up the place we encountered anything that could go wrong with an apartment. Anything you can think of – and I’ll leave it to your imaginations.
We couldn’t get to anyone to help us, so we started thinking, maybe we should figure out a way to get out of it…
This was before we met the Super-from-Brooklyn-with-two-daughters who, too, pledged to help us make this place a home. And he was doing a good job at it. I thought.
No need to get out of this place in the end, I thought.
But my roommate was not happy – and I did not know that.
So I do not know what she had told her family, about the apartment or where I was standing, but somehow she broke our pledge.
She had her family terminate our lease. We were to move out. Move out of a “home” we have not even started living in. The “home” we poured half a years rent in.
I had one day. One day to take all my stuff out, one day to find a new place, one day to become homeless and not-homeless.
I broke down that day.
In the middle of the street.
Right when I was walking “home” to do freaking “laundry”.
And I shouted, and cried and I lost it all, and I sat down on the curb and I cried more.
They didn’t even bother to tell me before hand. They didn’t even ask for my goddamn permission.
And there I was, as helpless as I have ever been.
Crying on the curbside.
“I’m carrying my heart but it’s made of stone”
And I could feel something breaking in me.
Maybe my trust in my friendships.
Maybe my belief in myself.
Something near to me, something close. Something I depended on.
“I’m carrying my heart, but my heart is made of stone”
And I did it. I moved out in one day. I found a new place. A place I’d really rather not be in, but that was the best I could do in about three hours.
Our money is yet to be returned.
“See I left my mother’s heart”
And I still feel as helpless as I felt on that curbside a couple of weeks ago.
“See I left my father’s home”
I just don’t show it anymore, because it’s making life harder to live.
“And I fell into a well of hope”
So that’s what I have been rambling about in the past few posts.
I bet you didn’t see this one coming.
I’ll tell you I never did.