Last night I lived in Madrid; tonight I live in Waterford. I have moved back to my mother’s house, a house I have not lived in for a year and a half, and then it was only a short stint. All the times I have lived in my mother’s house over the last decade have been short stints. I never foresee making my decision to move home – it always seems to occur in a moment.
I lie on my bed and look at the things left over from my youth. Some books, a portable television, a Playstation, videos, tapes, CDs, a stereo, and a few shelves filled with knickknacks. There are little replicas around the room of places my brother visited. One is of the Coliseum; another of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. When I opened the wardrobe I noticed two Liverpool football jerseys, the football team I supported as a child. On the wall there is a Taxi Driver poster with a caption stating: “On every street there’s a nobody who dreams of being a somebody. He’s a lonely and forgotten man desperate to prove he’s alive.” On the back of the door there is a Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas poster. As soon as I walked into the room it reminded me of someone I knew, not someone I was.
