Dwelling Place

I always peer into the glass hesitantly, knowing what it is that I will see, dissatisfied with the reflection of one who was meant, even made for more. They say that we will long to be what we will be. Nothing I have ever heard has been truer. This tent in which I live is falling apart. And I groan for the house that will soon be mine. Until then, I am stuck with this tent, burned and destroyed, not from the outside, but from within. The tenant doesn’t know how to take care of this dwelling place, setting fire to its walls and carving holes in it with a knife. I wish I could say that I don’t know any better, but I do. I hate this tent, this reflection. No one would dare live here, not even I want to, but this is where I remain, longing to escape and unable to stop mutilating my dwelling place. I often feel that I was meant for more than this tent, even to turn it into an exquisite mansion, complete with stained-glass windows and superb interior design. But this tent dweller is still burning the inside of the tent. How on earth can a charred piece of cloth be built into a mansion? I am so ill-equipped. There is no way that I can accomplish the task set before me…none. I think this is the contractor’s way of reminding me that a tent dweller is not made to construct; my only hope for success if to fully rely on the contractor.