Hobos With Houses

INTRO – The House Means Nothing

You ever look around at your life and think: this should feel better than it does?

You’ve got the apartment. Maybe a girl. Money’s not the issue. Clothes fit. Watch looks good. You know the restaurants. You’re connected enough to get in almost anywhere. On paper, you’ve got the house.

But inside? You're homeless.

Spiritually bankrupt. Nervous system shot. Can’t sit still. Can’t feel anything real.

That’s what this book is about.

Not the guys who failed. The ones who "made it" and still feel empty. The ones who crushed the game, but forgot who they were. The ones who built the house but never made it a home.

I call them hobos with houses.

And I was one of them.

CHAPTER ONE – The Mask of Stability

Most men never get to the point where their life looks good from the outside. The ones that do usually think they’ve won. They haven’t.

That’s the first trap.

You wake up in a nice apartment, scroll some DMs, maybe a girl is still in your bed. You feel... nothing. Numb. Slightly annoyed, even.

So you work out.
You post.
You chase.

You try to grab the reins again. You hit a party, say the right things, laugh at the right jokes. Maybe you even take someone home. But the high fades fast.

You tell yourself you’re living.
Really, you’re running.

Because when you're finally alone again, in the silence of your own space... it echoes.

And deep down, your peace is gone. It never arrived. You built your house on sand. And you knew it. You just didn’t want to slow down enough to admit it.

You might even gaslight yourself. Say things like:

• "I’m just tired."

• "It’s a phase."

• "I just need to change cities."

• "Once I get the next thing, I’ll feel better."

But the truth is: you're not missing a new achievement. You're missing you.

What happens next is a cycle. It repeats.

You chase.
You crash.
You cope.

Sometimes with porn.
Sometimes with weed.
Sometimes with another girl who never knew the real you.

And every time, you lose a bit more of yourself. Not in one dramatic moment—but in a thousand small leaks. You start to forget what presence feels like. You become a shell that can still talk, still smile, still shake hands—but behind the eyes, nothing's firing.

People don’t see it. Hell, you barely do.
Because the mask of stability is convincing.

You pay your bills. You show up. You know your macros. You know what to say to make people laugh, what to post to get the likes.

But you also know you’re pretending. Because at night, with no noise, you can’t sit still.

There’s a difference between having a schedule and having purpose.
Between getting replies and being seen.
Between getting laid and being touched.

Most men don’t want to admit this because it costs them their ego.
To admit they’ve been living as a ghost.
To admit they’re scared of stillness.

But if you don’t admit it, it never changes.
You just become more refined in your denial. A better liar with a better haircut.

I was that guy.
Designer sneakers, connected nightlife circle, decent online presence. Had access to models, influencers, bottle service. I could name-drop five club owners in the city and get you into any rooftop by 11 PM.

None of that shit saved me.

What saved me was finally stopping.
Looking around the "house" I built.
And admitting it wasn’t home.

It was a beautifully staged prison.
And I was the one who locked the door.

A stable life is not a meaningful life.
A full calendar is not a full heart.
A luxury condo is not a sanctuary.

If your nervous system is fried and your soul is dehydrated, you’re not winning. You’re just decorating your cage.

This chapter ends when you finally admit that.
Not out loud.
To yourself.

And that’s when the real work begins.

CHAPTER TWO – The Cleanse

I did what most people won’t. I stopped everything.

Drugs, sex, alcohol, fake connections, stimulation.

I turned the volume all the way down.

And then I sat in it. All of it.

At first, it was quiet. But not peaceful. Like the eerie silence after a storm where you know something’s still wrong. You’re scanning for danger, but it’s inside now.

The first few days were physical. Headaches. Restlessness. Hunger pangs without hunger. Muscle memory reaching for the phone, the vape, the hit, the message. I wasn’t addicted to the substances—I was addicted to the escape.

Then came the emotional withdrawal. Memories that had been buried under women, workouts, parties, and scrolls started to crawl out of the cracks.

I remembered my childhood bedroom. The silence there too. But a different kind. The kind where you felt forgotten. Unseen.

I remembered being in college, pretending to be a man while still a boy. Trying to impress ghosts. Trying to earn love.

I remembered my dad. Not as the man who died. But as the boy who raised me while still trying to raise himself.

Then came the guilt. The mistakes. The bridges burned. The women I misused, not always with malice but with emptiness.

And then the grief. Of the child I never held. Of the parts of myself I abandoned. Of the time I’ll never get back.

I cried. I shook. I laughed at nothing. I laid flat on my back staring at the ceiling, asking God if this was what healing looked like.

It was.

See, the demon cleanse isn’t about "cutting bad habits." That’s surface-level bullshit. This was deeper. It was about letting all the parts of me I’d buried finally speak.

And when they did, they didn’t scream. They whispered.

– “I’m tired.” – “I miss you.” – “Can we stop pretending?”

One day I got out of bed and didn’t reach for my phone. Didn’t check anything. Didn’t crave anyone.

I just was.

That was the moment I knew I was healing.

Let me be clear—it wasn’t linear. There were days I nearly broke. Nights I wanted to go out just to feel something. Times I opened old conversations I had no business looking at. But every time I paused instead of acted, I won a small piece of myself back.

This kind of silence isn’t comfortable. It’s surgical. It cuts into everything fake. And what’s left?