Monday, 9 February 2009 - 4:38 pm


We’re in another building tonight, this one packed full of tiny apartments. Furniture has been squeaked into the narrow rooms and every spare cranny has been stuffed with knickknacks, ornaments, books, pictures, and, in one case, shoes. We went through each cubbyhole home, searching for food and water mostly, and anything else that might be of use.

It’s still strange, walking through other people’s things. I find myself unwilling to touch things, trying not to leave them out of place, in case whoever owns them might come back someday. Maybe they’re like us, walking home the long way. I take what I know we need, but it still feels wrong.

I want to leave a note behind us: an IOU, an apology. Some sign that we took because we needed to, not because we wanted to. Not because we could. But I didn’t leave a note. I am a thief now; perhaps it’s time that I admitted that and got used to it. Perhaps it’s time I stopped making excuses.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to walking around other people’s homes, and hoping that they’re dead and never coming back so that I’ll feel less guilty about taking their stuff.