Three thousand miles from anything I’d ever call a place,
I wake with foreign light falling cold across my face,
The ceiling hums like it’s reciting someone else’s case,
And I can’t find a single trace of me it will embrace.
The morning feels pre-owned, like someone left it on the curb,
A half-lived day with edges dulled, its meaning slightly blurred,
I try to fit inside it but my shape feels undisturbed,
Like I’ve been edited from something I once clearly heard.
No one to mark my leaving, no device to track the route,
No archived proof I vanished, no one I could reroute,
Just distance growing louder in a quiet, total mute,
Like I was never entered in the system to compute.
I skate the cracked-up parking lot behind a shuttered store,
Each push a small defiance I can’t justify much more,
The asphalt doesn’t ask me who I used to be before,
It receives the friction and doesn’t keep a score.
I keep thinking maybe “home” was just a borrowed tone,
A frequency I tuned to but was never really known,
Something people say when they don’t want to be alone,
Not something with a spine that you can actually be shown.
They didn’t even hate me—that would mean I still exist,
No anger, no explosion, just a quiet little twist,
Like tossing out a cup you didn’t notice that you missed,
And suddenly I’m landfill in a life I can’t resist.
I talk to God like static, like a channel I can’t clear,
Half-prayer, half complaint that something real should still be here,
But heaven feels like distance stretched too thin to interfere,
And all I get is echoes that dissolve before they’re near.
The wind moves through the alley like it knows me by my name,
Or maybe I just need it to pretend I’m not the same,
To say I wasn’t thrown away but slipped out of the frame,
Though every version of it circles back to quiet blame.
I try to sit with stillness like the monks talk about,
Let thoughts dissolve to nothing, let the ego bleed out,
But mine just multiplies itself in fractal loops of doubt,
A system built to turn all certainty to drought.
And yet there’s something low and dull that doesn’t disappear,
Not hope exactly—more like something stubborn staying here,
A pulse that doesn’t care if I am wanted or austere,
Just beating like it’s proving I was never theirs to clear.
So I exist in limbo, three thousand miles out of phase,
A ghost of who I was caught in geographic haze,
Not found, not even missing—just erased in subtle ways,
Still waking up to mornings I don’t know how to phrase.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 8:25 AM UTC
Three thousand miles from anything I’d ever call a place,
I wake with foreign light falling cold across my face,
The ceiling hums like it’s reciting someone else’s case,
And I can’t find a single trace of me it will embrace.
The morning feels pre-owned, like someone left it on the curb,
A half-lived day with edges dulled, its meaning slightly blurred,
I try to fit inside it but my shape feels undisturbed,
Like I’ve been edited from something I once clearly heard.
No one to mark my leaving, no device to track the route,
No archived proof I vanished, no one I could reroute,
Just distance growing louder in a quiet, total mute,
Like I was never entered in the system to compute.
I skate the cracked-up parking lot behind a shuttered store,
Each push a small defiance I can’t justify much more,
The asphalt doesn’t ask me who I used to be before,
It receives the friction and doesn’t keep a score.
I keep thinking maybe “home” was just a borrowed tone,
A frequency I tuned to but was never really known,
Something people say when they don’t want to be alone,
Not something with a spine that you can actually be shown.
They didn’t even hate me—that would mean I still exist,
No anger, no explosion, just a quiet little twist,
Like tossing out a cup you didn’t notice that you missed,
And suddenly I’m landfill in a life I can’t resist.
I talk to God like static, like a channel I can’t clear,
Half-prayer, half complaint that something real should still be here,
But heaven feels like distance stretched too thin to interfere,
And all I get is echoes that dissolve before they’re near.
The wind moves through the alley like it knows me by my name,
Or maybe I just need it to pretend I’m not the same,
To say I wasn’t thrown away but slipped out of the frame,
Though every version of it circles back to quiet blame.
I try to sit with stillness like the monks talk about,
Let thoughts dissolve to nothing, let the ego bleed out,
But mine just multiplies itself in fractal loops of doubt,
A system built to turn all certainty to drought.
And yet there’s something low and dull that doesn’t disappear,
Not hope exactly—more like something stubborn staying here,
A pulse that doesn’t care if I am wanted or austere,
Just beating like it’s proving I was never theirs to clear.
So I exist in limbo, three thousand miles out of phase,
A ghost of who I was caught in geographic haze,
Not found, not even missing—just erased in subtle ways,
Still waking up to mornings I don’t know how to phrase.
Wrote this when I was 19 and stuck in some far off town. I lost the original journal it was in somehow so it’s evolved a lot over the past 13 years or so. Anyway, yeah. Here it is