Most times, I come home
To an empty house.
Albeit, my dogs greet me with tails wagging and tongues hanging,
Before quickly folding again into
dewy sleep.
I take myself to the gym, work out with my reflection
With no ones crabby judgement and helicopter gaze other than mine
And the local and loving creep.
I buy myself a drink, a well-deserved reward, slurp in silence
On a bus ride with solely the self, and go back,
To an empty house.
I sit and do homework, without anyone telling me to or
Being there to ask what it is.
And I simply do.
I cook myself dinner, engaging in stimulating conversation with my favourite conversationalist, me!
I talk about my day and what I could have done better
And why I did not do better.
I eat and watch the sunset from my west-facing kitchen window.
I have sworn off of Netflix whilst eating
Because such opportunity is too sacred to be wasted.
I sleep and sprawl by myself.
Goodnight wishes are a luxury available only on the weekends.
And then I wake up only to
Whisper to myself a wishing of good morning,
And get ready by myself
And pack my own bag,
And make my own breakfast,
And eat my own breakfast,
And pack my own lunch
And get on yet another bus ride with solely the self,
And go.
And then most times, I come home
To an empty house.
Whenever I get the opportunity, or the monotony gets to my head a little too much,
I contemplate of one day how my house will be anything but empty. The volcanic laughter of children, the shrill shrieks of lego beng stepped upon, big dogs sprinting, small dogs yapping, the stove eternally burning. The distant sounds of unwatched TV, the clangings of Tibetan singing bowls, the frying of root vegetables and spices, the burning of funfetti cake. Soon-to-be forgotten reminders of upcoming soccer practice and complaints of burnt-out ballet shoes. The aroma of my speciality brownies and banana cake will live permanently within the walls and the burn marks of 3-wick candles left burning too long will be tucked behind picture frames of themed family photos, seasoned with goofy gins. Sounds of smooches from an old married couple still young in love, and the unavoidable groans of discontent from the products of that very love.
My home will be full and vibrant and chaotic and colourful.
Calendars will overflow, sticky notes of gentle shopping lists will be a mosaic upon the two-door fridge. Soy milk will be spilled and bamboo toothbrushes in constant need of replacement and bulk buying.
Not a sunset will go by without goodnight hugs
Nor a sunrise without good morning kisses.
Time will be spent and space taken up by the warmth and decadence
Of disorderly love.
This dream lives a decade down the street.
When I reach there and think fondly of the structure and silence of my lonely teenage years,
When I yearn for the unbearable stillness and tsunami of empty space,
When I desperately long for the type of solitude that makes one sit on their hands and scream into pillows
That is when I will know that I have
Made it.
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