I open the door, little short of breath from sprinting up the stairs. A sense of comfort greets me. The scent of vanilla, fresh strawberries and a cigarette put out 4 hours ago are mixed in the air. I open the window and before I realise it, I’m lost in the endless Parisian roofs. Mosaic of chimneys. Mix of white and grey. The soothing sound of the city is broken by a loud siren and I am taken out of my hypnosis. 

 

I take a seat in my read chair, light a cigarette and trace my eyes along a string of postcards, I’ve collected and carefully selected for that particular spot. Each one resembles a place, a person, a memory… I live my life in suitcases now, and this is the most I could take with me. To remind me of where I’ve been, with whom I’ve met, who I’ve been. Their weight is in their history. The rest of my things is just a pile of stuff. Emotionless. Storyless. A collection of materialistic things. And still, I drag them around with me too, to the next place I will not have an attachment to. Another apartment. Another bed.Another set of stairs to climb up and down. Another window with a view of Parisian roofs. 

My postcards are the only thing making me feel more at home in each one of those places. Leaving me wonder when will I really find the place I will call my home. 

 

With the last draw of my cigarette, I immerse out of my stream of thoughts and head back to packing up my endless amount of possessions in boxes. “It’s just a place,” I mutter to myself and just like that - I manage to push back the suffocating fear that I might’ve lost what it feels like to be at home for good, trying to close its hands around my neck.

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