where is my mind?

You wouldn't believe it, I'm writing this from the house I grew up in. Everything is the same and different. This just kind of...happened. I can't stop looking around. I don't know if I'm looking at something, or looking for something, but all the same, I can't stop looking. Everything in this house is just as my life as always been. A little off, a little crooked. Everything is dusty and misplaced, like it hasn't moved since I left. I find myself wiping the dust, straightening the pictures on the walls, moving a lamp here and then there. And I can't help but think that I'm not fixing the house so much as I am fixing myself. Wiping my tears, straightening my thinking, moving my heart here and then there, trying to turn it on and shine it on the positves of being here. I am trying. I don't want to be the one she knows as wallowing in self pity, because how can you wallow if you yourself created the water hole? I would more readily ask that they cry their tears into this certain place, so that I can contain them, scoop them up in a bucket and taste the salty tears and swallow their pain.
For the first time, in a long time, the only thing I know to do is pray. I spit out the words creating a mist that coats everything it touches with my apologies, and quietly hope that if you can't see it, maybe you can feel it.