There's this place that I like to call home. It's not much, but it's warm and dry, and I'm comfortable here.

Now there are people coming in, stomping around in their size 12 boots saying that things need changing. So they've come in, and papered over the cracks in the walls, they've put carpets over the holes in the floors, painted the rotten window frames and turned the lights down low so we can't see the missing plaster on the ceilings. They are shutting the doors to some of the rooms. Some of the rooms they are nailing shut, and some of the rooms are being knocked right down. Some of the people are going to have to leave, as there is no more space. But we don't know who will leave, and who will stay, or when it will happen. We're losing our home as we know it, and my mind is slipping away.

But it's okay. It's still warm, and friendly. All the things and people I love are still here, and even I'm guilty of patching over and shutting out. I'm putting rugs on the floor so that we can't see the stains on the carpet, drawing the curtains so that we can't see the missing window panes, and hanging paintings to hide the lumpy walls.

But then I look around, and I see that there are other people doing what I'm doing, making our home shrink, and lose itself. But they are wearing masks, so no-one can see who they are, and they want me to wear a mask too. They want to hide their shame, and I can't do it. I'm coming apart at the seams, and being torn limb from limb. I stand outside and look in, or I try to. I can only manage to get as far as the gate, but I try to lean backwards for a detached look. My mind slowly drips onto the garden path.

It's only a place to come. Only a thing. There are other places, and there are other things. I can go here, or there, I can do this or that. But I feel so much for this place that I love, I've been here so long, and have so many good memories here. This home where I belong, it's where I come when I'm happy, it's what makes me happy. It's where I come when being somewhere else has made me sad. It's where I argue, love, help out, get angry, and where I found myself. I hadn't known who I was before I came here, and being here helped me to know what I am. For that reason alone I can't let go. My mind freezes when I think about leaving, and I have to go back inside before it cracks.

I leave the people who want me to wear a mask, and I walk away. I need some time to think. Some time to decide if I want to stay here with a mask so that all I have left is old memories, because I can't make new ones wearing a mask. Or do I want to leave the mask and the patching up behind, and become the 'done to', with a weight of responsibility on my shoulders that I have no way of dealing with, no way of living, without this. No way to prevent the rot from overturning my life.

My mind oozes slowly out onto the floor again. I'm getting tired of fixing it back up. Letting it go would be the easy way out, and I never take that. But maybe soon, we won't be able to stay together, and there will be no choice. My mind will pack its bags and leave, and I will still be sitting here, slowly rocking backwards and forwards, and drooling on the floor. But my heart will be at peace, because there will be nothing more to worry it. No one can take any more away.