A Life That Doesn't Exist Yet

Recently I found a place I really like. I did a bit of searching for houses nearby, and before long I was imagining what it would be like to live there.

“If I lived here, where would I go grocery shopping?"
"How long would it take to walk home from the station?"
"What color would the sea look like through the window in winter?”

I’ve only been there twice, and yet I’ve already started filling in the details of a life that doesn’t exist yet.

I have no home. Even my life right now feels like something borrowed, or stolen. Where I live is temporary, who I am is temporary, and my future is temporary too. I’m only allowed to be here for now, and I don’t know when that permission might suddenly end.

Even so, I can’t help searching for the prices of those houses, imagining the slope and the steps I’d pass every day, imagining the sea in winter. And I can’t help wondering — if even this kind of imagining came to an end, where would I still be able to put myself.