We fill our lives and hearts with so many things, people and experiences. And then one of them somehow goes away and something else takes its place. Or, usually, a feeling opposite to the one we felt before, at least for a while until we’re ready to make space for something new.
And then there are these moments when we don’t even have that. There’s no sadness, there’s no anger, there’s nothing but an empty spot that once used to be so full.
I live in rented apartments and I never took one that wasn’t furnished. Besides being too lazy to get my own furniture, empty houses give me a weird feeling. Like they’re waiting for the next thing to suck in.
Part of me is an empty house now, when once it was a place full of light and joy. The rest of me feels full and joyful, trying to consume with open eyes everything that comes my way. And there’s this one spot, a bald spot that I can’t seem to go around.
I feel guilty over it – there aren’t even wilted flowers or other depressing things so I could pinpoint why this spot makes me feel sad. And all it does is activate the hoarding sense that tells me I should put something over it, like covering myself with a towel when I get out of the shower or like you cover mirrors when someone died in the house.
You know, just keeping it out of sight until one day I pull the curtain and I see there are new things to enjoy and play with there as well.