No fixed abode

I often long to escape the place I call home.
Its windows can bring natural lights that make the shades skuttle,
The doors can echo, vibrating the spiders' webs, forcing the mice to turn.

At these times I glimpse its enormity and its this that I fear the most;
Hallways reveal endlessnesses,
Crowded rooms bury more room.
Then there are the doors rarely opened - they lead to more doors, containing keys.

Frequently I stand outside, both admiring its beauty and being sickened by its ugliness.

Sometimes I have been spotted peering through gaps in curtains and ringing the doorbell in frustration.
I am utterly obsessed by an entity I hardly know, fascinated by my swelling ignorance.

I am hovering between spaces, so desperate to return to the place I call home.