A Room of One’s Own

I long for my own space again. Not to languish in, but to be independent in. Maybe to sometimes languish and be idle.

I miss my books and records. I miss all my dresses and perfumes. I miss my kitchen and all those gorgeous skillets of stainless steel, the ceramic ramekins, the porcelain French Onion soup dishes with the little lions engraved on the front and the darling little lip.

I suppose if I were a pharaoh I might want to “take these things with me”; I try not to be materialistic, but being forcibly divorced from my things due to the unhinged malice of an unchecked villain is beginning to be a bit much, even if it’s for my personal growth and ridding me of the malady of alcoholism.

Vivid dreams between realms. More often than ever of an endless bouquet of cords and outlets that don’t match, domestic and international outlets, and the pareidolia of those outlets, like cartoon faces with loud whistling mouths and shocked eyes and how I can’t find the right cord for said outlet.

I dreamt I found my weed vape and was trying desperately to inhale from it, but the weed was all dried up and the pen wasn’t charged. Then I woke up, restless. Another day, another drudgery.

I’m fine as long as I can get another cup of coffee. I get a beige leather makeup bag with a brass zipper and a pop socket in the mail today. Tomorrow, rose gold toothbrush heads and on Friday, dry shampoo.

It reminds me of this time my father bought me a Barbie doll I’d coveted all Saturday long, only for me to play with a few hours before the wraith of melancholia and dissatisfaction visited upon me.

Surely, you can’t take it with you.