This Room I'm In.

They all call it home, this room I’m in. It is too small for me, for my life. My shoes can hardly hit the floor—being here makes my feet itch, itch for adventure, for the world, for anything outside this room. A jail cell that I entered voluntarily, trapped by the promise of homemade dinners and familiarity. Nothing has changed here, even the commercials on TV are the same. But I’m not. The crazy dreamer left to pursue a dream, one that doesn't include this bedroom. The flowers on the desk—an attempt by a boy to resurrect a love that died a long time ago—make my chest collapse in anger, annoyance, and pity. There are so many things in here, so many things I don’t want or need. The suitcases scattered on the floor beg to be repacked. Their purpose is to go, just like mine. These blue and gray walls are too calm for me, the colors too stable. I get claustrophobic inside these walls, anxious to open the door and run. They call it home, this room I’m in. But I prefer to be homeless.