like-a-soul-without-a-home
'90
7 posts
Latest Posts by like-a-soul-without-a-home
“Those days didn’t belong to this world.”
She couldn’t remember his name. Or the street they lived on.
But she remembered the night.
One particular night—cool, with fog hanging over Seattle, vinyl spinning in the background, and laughter echoing across the rooftops.
Her body slept now in 2025, in a cold bed, in a quiet apartment.
But her soul... her soul never came back.
She could feel him. Sometimes in dreams.
Like a fleeting touch on her skin, like the sound of a guitar that lingers too long to be just an echo.
In his eyes, she saw the whole truth about herself—and it terrified and soothed her at once.
People here said: “It’s just your imagination.”
But it wasn’t imagination.
It was him.
It was them.
It was a world that no longer existed, but whose memory hurt more than anything that had ever truly happened.
Because how can you miss something you never lived?
Only when you’ve already been there once.
Sometimes I think there are others like me – people without a time, without a city, without a land.
People who don’t believe in small talk and shallow glances.
Who want to undress the soul with words, not the body.
The kind who will never truly belong anywhere.
Like a soul without a home
There are places I've never seen with my own eyes, yet I carry them within me like memories from a past life.
Seattle – it's not just a city. It's a state of soul. It's the scent of smoke and rain.
It's a club with slightly distorted sound, where someone in ripped jeans and an exposed soul sings about everything I can't say out loud.
I long for what is raw, unpolished, real.
For conversations where no words are needed. For glances that don't judge.
For music that hurts, yet soothes at the same time.
I wasn't there. I didn’t live then.
But I feel more from there than from here. My body walks through the world of 2025, but my soul got stuck somewhere between Black, Like a Stone, and the silence after the last chord.
The world today tells me:
“Fix yourself, look prettier, don’t be so emotional, find someone before it’s too late.”
But I don’t want that.
I don’t want to be perfect.
I want to feel, to write, to love.
I want to look someone in the eyes and know they truly see me – not my face, not my Instagram story – but me.
I don’t know where you are – whether you're sitting on the floor with a cup of coffee, or lying in bed with a head full of screams. But I know you're out there. And I know you feel.
I’ve been in that place too. Sometimes a person drowns in themselves – in their own thoughts, in fear, in questions that have no answers. The world shouts “be someone,” “smile,” “get moving,” and you just want a single day when it doesn’t hurt.
You know, I wrote and sang because otherwise I would’ve fallen apart. And I know you carry something too – a word, a sound, a tenderness that can heal. Maybe not the whole world, but yourself and those who feel the same.
You’re not weak because life hurts. You’re incredibly strong for still carrying it – even if sometimes just barely.
If we ever met – in a club, on the street, or somewhere between a song and the silence – I’d sit with you and say: “You’re not alone. I know what it means to feel too much.” And you wouldn’t have to say a thing. We’d just sit there. Like people who don’t have to play a role.
You won’t fix the world all at once. But each day, piece by piece, you can build your own Seattle – a place where you’re allowed to be yourself. Allowed to be silent. Allowed to scream. Allowed to laugh for no reason.
Don’t disappear. You’re needed. Even if you can’t see it yet.
I'm not from here.
My body walks through the world of 2025, but my soul stayed behind — in a bar in Seattle, somewhere between "Black" and the silence.
I don’t want to be perfect. I don’t want to be manufactured.
I want to feel. To write. To love someone who understands.
If you feel the same — stay.
You’ll find shelter here.