“My heart has more rooms than a whorehouse.”

Compartmentalized capsules that are home to memories and the dew like substance that compose them. Like semi precious stones held tight in the fists of the homeless. Wandering from room to room, I find walls marked rough with the passage of time and a guilt I’ve come to realize we all inherently carry. I’ve chosen to open doors that lead only to more doors, winding passageways and alleys, dimly lit with the fire that I’ve kept burning through all these years of wandering from door to door. I wish there were windows I could open, let in light that is missing from the corners of this home.

The only moment I feel peace, the early rays of dawn, when I open my eyes and am lost in the momentary confusion that comes with the first few seconds of consciousness. Perhaps one day, it’ll be easier to be believe again.

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Photo by Erik Muller