I make homes.
I destroy homes too.
But I have my home.
My comfort zone.
And while sitting in my zone.
With all the accessories around me.
Mine. Defined by me. Me, defined by them.
Like your bed.
And the bedsheet.
And the attached bath.
And the hanging towel.
And the entire yours.
The entire you.
In the comfort zone.
It’s your home.
It’s your home.
It’s my home.
We own our homes.
This way or that, we own.
Taken for granted or snatched…
Owned.
So,
I have my home.
My comfort zone.
Mine, defined by me.
Me, defined by the furniture.
I feel homelessness.
I don’t feel homelessness for all those who sleep on footpaths.
No. Don’t take me wrong.
I don’t feel for homes in Gaza. They are already demolished.
Not for Iraq.
Or Yemen.
Or Syria.
Or Libya.
Or Ukraine.
Or the whole Africa.
I feel homelessness.
In my home.
In my comfort zone.
Around products, defined by me.
Around me, defined by my consumerism.
I feel homelessness.
