Wildes Writing

Tim Wildes

In youth, I believed that I’d always have a place to return to, there would always be somewhere to take off your boots and sit, even briefly. I remember the comfort of a rainstorm as I lay in my bed, drifting to a sleep that was hugged by the sounds of drops on my roof. One is blessed to be out of the cold, we are blessed to be warm. It is a privilege that can’t be ignored, shelter.

I couldn’t imagine a reality without this privilege. It was something I took for granted as implicit in the human condition. Of course, this isn’t the truth for many people. Children are ignorant, especially when experiencing privilege. I never gave thought to the experience of moving; it simply wasn’t relevant in my life.

I’ve moved many times in the last few years, more than I’d like to admit. It’s strange to find a place you’ve grown ready to call home, only to lose it. It keeps you on edge; you experience a carnal fear that can’t be tapped by modern empathy. One needs a place of permanence; this privilege is taken for granted in our society. Those without permanence are written off and made invisible.  You stay somewhere for a collection of off months, then just like that, you pack all your things and move again. It’s hard to know where you belong, if you even do?

Even now I can’t familiarize myself with a place to call home.

I’m too used to the process of losing it.

Now surrounded again by the unfamiliar;

I wander aimlessly.

I wish I could call this place mine.

I wish I could take off my boots; even when I do, I can’t sit.

I am not welcome here.

I can’t sleep;

this isn’t my bed,

despite how much I wish it were.