My body is my home. For the next few months, this one-bedroom rented apartment I share with my friend of over fifteen years is my home.
My mind is my home, and this world is my home. The endless timeline of my Twitter feed is my home (I’m not calling it X). That Pakistani show, which first premiered twelve years ago, is also my home.
I reside in the crevices; I take up space. Then I shrink and fade away. I am here, but then I disappear. Fighting for an inch of space, knowing fully well that I am that space that invades the timelessness of existence.
So if you ask for my address and I seem a little confused, bless me and walk on. I am still setting up the cabinets, and I am still wiping off the stains from the carpets.
There are cracks in the walls, and the bathroom door doesn’t bolt. One day, I will invite you in for a cup of tea, but that day is not today. So until then, let me fetch tea leaves, and you can go find yourself a cup that isn’t chipped on the edges.