My house is a room in Lucifer’s mansion. It doesn’t provide the warmth and coziness that comes with a thousand blazing fires. Even in hell, it still painstakingly manages to retain it’s chilling atmosphere. The vast empty space reminds me of the hollow hole that is my soul. The lacking homely decor openly reveals the lack of presence, the lack of being. The reminder a constant kick in the gut. It exaggerates the strange alienation I feel from everything. As if announcing loudly, look! Even in your own house, you remain a stranger. Even confined in this oddly shaped walls, free as a bird, you are still imprisoned. The drawn curtains sway seductively to the rhythm of the wind. Stressing the satisfaction that comes with enjoying life’s simple pleasures. The lack of day to day human activity sharply points out my seemingly purposeless existence. Retiring every night I sigh in exasperation. In slow harmonious whispers the oddly shaped walls mouth disappointments. You don’t eat, you don’t bathe, you don’t shit, you don’t clean, you simply don’t exist, you might as well be dead. You sit there tightly hugging your bruised knees , scribbling sadness on a worn out notebook like your life depends on it, drowning your misery in alcohol, pawning necessities off for momentary highs. It’s pathetic. You are pathetic. This house hates me. This house wishes it could pour me down the drain like cold coffee. But The shoe rack rooted marvelously at the corner won’t let it. Like a disciplined bodyguard it just inconspicuously stands there, observing. I don’t need to see it to know it’s silently watching over me. It doesn’t speak . It doesn’t judge . It merely protects.