In front of me, there is a picture of an evanescent home. I stare blindly into this small place, and memories appear that I can only feel. The only thing I seem to remember is losing an album of precious times. Perhaps I may be like an orphan, where my lost parents are replaced by lost memories. My neglected feeling guides me to search this familiar room, and my eyes land on the small figurine that I used to love. I zoom in, and find uneven lines surrounding the heart that was printed across its chest. This bright figure sits on a dusty cloth, in front of an aged wall.
Dipped in a shadow, I can barely make out the dent of its mouth that no longer smiles at me. My eyes then move to the right, overlooking many objects I have once touched. Then they turn their direction, and outline two curves before shooting up along five strings, and passing many frets. In the empty air beside this fingerprint-smudged guitar, I start to expect myself there. The thwarted feeling in my gut strums a sigh as I shift my gaze again. I then see the old TV that still sits in its claimed corner, to the right of the guitar.
Staring at the screen, the only thing that lights up is the last imprint of the camera’s light. The next imprint I discover is the patch of wall I used to stamp pictures on. I still have that stamp somewhere, but the last of its ink, trapped on this eroding wall, is on the other side of an ocean, and soon to be washed away with new paint. Looking to the right one more time, I circle back to the small figurine, caged in the same expression. I close my dry mouth that has been trying to breathe in the flavor of before, savoring only bitter helplessness, like ink.
In the center of my chest, I feel as if a needle is slowly sowing a thread. A long thread that tugs from the spool that was home, stretching tightly across the large ocean, where I can picture the glow of this dwelling playing at the end of the tranquil horizon. I cannot swim, however, and so I watch my things disappear, as strangers fill the room.