A room isn't a room until it has shoes in awkward places and dust in the corners. It hasn't been lived in until there are marks on the walls and tear-stains on the bed linens.
This room has been lived in. It is lived in. So why do I feel this frustrating, gnawing, consuming need to break free of it? Why do I want to both retreat into the protection of my home and cast it away? Maybe I should blame it on sickness, on being weeks away from the biggest decision in my life so far. On missing my boyfriend. On stress. On anxiety. On loneliness.
I can't tell
anymore right now what I feel. Except restless; I'm definitely feeling restless. I feel like chewing my blankets into gooey pulp and then smashing my face against the wall a time or ten. However, as my mother in her wisdom reminds me time after time, this too shall pass.
Until then, watch me try to cheer myself up:
WolfGrrl
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