One Less a Home

Shelter when the wind gets rough, don’t mind the musty smell. In a space too small to stretch out straight; four walls found on the shoulder of a seabound stream. I feel the fever that comes with cabins, but those I pass weren’t built for survival. They only stand to solve the question of knowing if they could. Daydreams of times when one less a home could find their troubles more easily ended. We built boxes to keep the weather away, and once a fire got going, shelter was soon achieved. But damp and darkness broke our bodies, tight quarters tired our minds, and only the wildest still find such hovels homey. The rest make the best with the hope of someday making it better. I’ll never be the go-wild one, running back to the land for good. I’m already inhabiting the outskirts of society, where few conversations and prevalent silence give me all the peace I’ve got. Sure, I could always flee further, but I like a life of looking in. I won’t forget you if you don’t me.

March 22, 2026
Upper Clements, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6706 of my daily journal.