My life, my house. The place I live, where each event (First Time Skating) or linked series of events (Childhood) has a place and purpose. Behind different locutions you hear the architectural metaphor: laying the foundation, hitting the wall, raising/lowering the ceiling, room for improvement....
And thus: The Den. The Rec room. The Cellar. The Closet. Renovating. Expanding. Furniture. An ornament (“just for fun—an elegant touch”).
But where to put mental illness?
The Wreck-room?
Losing it (The House) repeatedly leads to a condition of vagabondage, provisional stints of renting, bunking-in, crashing...or outright exposure. Homelessness. Which is another, very different kind of home.
Different and not so different. Comfortable and uncomfortable. Hard to leave.
Or is one’s life a room in the house of one’s self? In my house are many mansions...
Or a snail’s shell?
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