i hate it here.

I've realized no one lives here. Not really. I'm in a house where no one lives, to keep theme. I'm only here until I have a car and a solid job, and the owners are only here until they can afford to live anywhere else. It's a beautiful little house on a beautiful piece of property. There's ducks and geese in the yard and a big, watery marsh, and fresh air all around. Sometimes, at night, you can hear the waves from the far off beach. More often than that, you can hear the sounds of cars rushing past in the road so far away, and pretend.

But there's no real love for this house. There's insurance on it in the vein hopes that a hurricane comes through and pushes it over, scrambles it across this pretty little yard and tosses every wood plank in a different direction. To get rid of it, to destroy it, to ruin it--for an easy pay off, so it's easier to move away. There's no sentimental value here, there's no worth in these walls. It's only a few decades old, hell, I don't even think it's older than I am, and this is a house that's destined to be destroyed before anyone honestly calls it a 'home'.

It's the 'house'. A building filled with our stuff. Hell, my clothing is all still packed, all my possessions ready to scoop in a bag. If given a sudden invitation, I'd be ready to walk out the door in just an hour or so...counting the time it took me to shower and brush my teeth. There's no love in a house like this. It's just a means to an end. It's a house in which nobody lives. They just sleep here. And, to be a bit silly, to personify the house...a lonely house, out in the woods, looking out at a beautiful backdrop it can't move to, surrounded by people who honestly don't care for it, to use it without appreciation.

I guess I feel guilty for not loving the place that has my bed. Not loving the people I love with. Not loving the location I point to at a map if someone asks where they can find me. The place I play guitar, or write, or smoke. The place that has me so far away from a familiar face, somehow stuck here without a solid job, or even solid health.

I hate this place, because it represents being stuck in a town too small for me. It represents being trapped in a place I don't want to be. It represents loneliness and desolation from the bigger world. I'm a kid who's supposed to be in the city. I should have the ability to by cigarettes with a two minute walk, not twenty. I should be able to sneak down into a jazz club, bum a smoke off the doorman, and sit close enough to listen without paying to get inside. I should be able to stumble into someone I didn't expect to meet, or be worried about being mugged or feel a flush of excitement when I hear music coming from a place I didn't expect. Young people should urge me to come inside their dirty little home for a few beers and music.

I shouldn't be out in the country with an acoustic guitar I can't get to scream out, out so far away from my people, writing folk songs that no one will listen to. I shouldn't be singing with my horrible voice or crying in the shower or having a heat stroke from physical labor. But I am. And I'm dying.

Not physically, but I can feel that beat and rhythm of my personality and my desire and my love slipping away every day I wake up here and realize, without a doubt

I'm alone.