I have found myself a home

- 003

let's not.  vent prose.

I don't know how to tell people this,
That our house died together with my Father.
You know, the things that make non-living objects alive are the people who inhabit and uses it but I might be a ghost because for some reason, I don't take up space. I'm here and I'm gone and I'm somewhere again and suddenly I'm back home and then I'll leave again. Because ever since my Father died, our home became empty even though I'm here and all I did was sit and cry and my neighbors have probably heard all the wailing and whining that I did.
This house was lively before.
I wonder what happened.
I know what happened, but I still wonder.
The floor is dust and the railings filled with the fur of my dogs is also dust. Everything is dust, the wood is crumbling. Rats are everywhere, the spider web keeps increasing, the water has gone stale, appliances covered in rust, food in the refrigerator that we haven't touched for two months, my Dad's photo covered in dust, my bed covered in dust, the smell of my clothes is dust, the windows where the sun used to rise is dust. My bags, my pillows, my stuffed toys, my home is dust. I wonder what happened.
I'm here but I can't make this whole place alive.
This house became so big, I feel empty, this house is empty. I became one of the ghosts who haunts the living. When I sit in silence in the dining room eating foods that I can't digest, the ceiling looks high, the curtain flutters together with the wind, the spoon tastes like dust and rust, the food tastes empty.
And I'll cry.
Because I miss my Father.
And I think about him when he eats with me, and when I wake up to him cooking, and when he took care of me when I felt like dying.

When my Dad died, I slept on his bed. I moved my things to his room. I started occupying his room because it might make me feel better about his absence. But none of it made things better. And I keep counting the days, the weeks, the months, and it's almost 5 months now since my Dad did not come home to me. And I hate myself for still waiting. I still sit and wait until 7 pm, in case my Dad would open the door and tell me that everything is just a joke and that he's alive, and now he's home.

But he's never going home. I know that.