I´ve got air roots.
That´s an excuse. You know that, if you say you´ve got air roots.
Cheating yourself. This is nothing more than sugar coating the nagging feeling of being… a stray.
You belong nowhere. There is no one to belong to. No place you could truly call home. No place you could come home to. No one greeting you. No one saying ‘welcome’. You rest your head in a stranger land, stranger house, tolerated by strangers…
Your life feels like a hotel room, and you´ve still got your bags unpacked. You are a transient hotel guest. Everything seems to leave the bitter-sour aftertaste of transiency and ephemerality.
You feel random. Random things keep happening. “Everything is replaceable.”
Compensability got under your skin. Every move you make, is a reminder. Futile efforts…
I guess this is why I´m looking so desperate for a meaning.