This isn’t my room.

No, my room is up the stairs and down the hall. First door on the left. For years and years and years I danced over one squeaky floorboard and argued with a door that never stayed open. I suffered nightmares about a ground floor window and never drew the shades. I painted and drew and taped over one layer after another. I grew up, didn’t I?

One day, my room turned into something else. A lofted bed and a futon with a mini fridge. There was a desk I never used. No, writers don’t need desks; mattresses and pillows work best. Sometimes I dropped things from the ceiling just to remind myself that I could still fall. How lucky was I to look down and so often see someone willing to catch me.

Another year another head full of dreams that only halfway came true. My room became a cramped collection of life, but mostly just a bed. I always found it easy to live in a bed. Dreams are a little richer when they occur in the same place as dinner, aren’t they? The walls were thin, but no matter. Fans masked the sound of a city that was never home, but more of an extended vacation.

Vacation isn’t over, and I’m still not at home. I suppose all of my things are the same. All of my things except my life. I am no longer the girl who danced in white socks. I am not even the girl who snuck home in the middle of the night. I don’t really know who I am, but I like the way that life has been letting me live. Even if this isn’t my room.