Every night, in the bedroom, I reject reality and substitute in my own.

We lay in bed, still. The morning light creeps through the gap between the blinds and the window, falls on the bedsheets that covers us.

Her arm lies across my chest and mine cradles the curve of her neck, drawing her near. Her breath gently tickles my skin while the soft subtle features of her face frames her dreams.

I kiss her forehead and she murmurs. She looks up with the eyes of an infant opening them for the first time. She smiles. Good morning.

Those were the happy days.

I don't own, I rent. I have had eight different bedrooms in the past ten years. I have shared them with strangers, friends, and people who fall into neither of those categories. I have also shared them with people who fall into both, now that I think about it. I see the spotless, tastefully decorated bedrooms in magazines and I honestly cannot understand who would ever choose to live like that. Nothing in my room matches, but I have a sneaking suspicion that somehow that makes everything go together. I have a television set in my bedroom but thankfully I do not remember the last time it was turned on. I read here, I think here, I come here to run away from my roommate when I fear that I might actually strangle him if one more word comes out of his mouth. I love the way it looks when every article of clothing is off the floor, each book in its place, and the bed made. I hardly ever love the way it looks. I love the way it feels when the jeans I wore to the bar last night are in a pile on the floor next to the flip flop whose match I can't seem to find and the flannel sheets I washed and was supposed to fold and pack away for the summer are still in a laundry basket in the corner. It feels like home. I realize that I am a packrat but I also realize that there is something very comforting in being surrounded by your own stuff. Magazine, candles, pictures, clothes, a million shoes, and a million books. All of it mine. All of it here after a shitty day of working a shitty job. Here the same after a lovely night out with friends. The furniture arrangement changes slightly with each new apartment and I get new things occasionally. The changes are small enough that I keep coming home regardless of how many times I move.

the first weekend i came home from college my bedroom depressed me so much. everything that had been familiar and comforting as i grew up now felt strange after a few weeks away. there were empty spots on the walls where i had taken some of my pictures and posters to college and some of my furniture was at my dorm . even my bed wasnt familiar anymore. i felt like a guest in my own room.

In the bedroom is where all my dirty socks lies on the floor.