Aren’t we all just trying to be a haven for someone? Aren’t we driven by the hopes of seeing change in untimely, unlikely, highly static, dogmatic, let-me-sleep-undisturbed corners of our reach? Are people we meet, not the treasures we misplaced once, and found, on a whim, under our beds? Are we not trying to stir something in hopes of reviving ourselves? Is this not selfish? Is this not the ultimate show of selflessness? Are we not indescribably lonely and wish only to feel the presence of someone? Are we not repulsed by our own shadow when the sunrise knocks past the window every morning? Are we not deluded then? For are we not wholesome characters with intricacies? Too afraid, too frustrated, doubly in denial to ever seek an answer to this fucking paradox? What will become of me? Will I ever get off this rollercoaster? Will it be a surprise or a premeditated move that halts this ride to its metallic jolt? Was I ever fit to live here? Does home become home cause you’ve grown accustomed to calling it that? Or is home where one feels a part of the furniture- burns in the fireplace, exhales and kicks off one’s shoes? If so, have I ever had a home? Did I ever take off my shoes? Why is it that I have only ever inhaled? When does an apology become genuine? Is it when you’re convinced of the words you’ve uttered, or because you see light again where you once squashed the source? Who is deservant of forgiveness? The one who believes in the authenticity of those words? Does forgiveness occur because we’ve been convinced or because we’ve just watched someone convince themselves? Is this even an apology?