The ceiling is high. Not like in the house I bought years ago, back in the old neighborhood, where before I even moved in I could feel all the walls closing in on me. The electronic scoreboard stays on all night, and my bed is positioned to see perfectly the rotating light show coming through the half open blinds, crawling up the wall and across the ceiling while I’m falling asleep and also when I’m waking up.
In the dining room, the sunlight streams through the blinds across my bookshelves. I put them there to see them differently (and more often) and it’s working because all I want to do is start at one end and move through the pages until I’ve read every book in this place.
Everything is dirty, I notice, because the light is brighter and the windows are bigger here than in my last apartment. I didn’t realize how filthy everything had become. This place looked so big the first time that I saw it, but now that my stuff (and her stuff) has found purchase I find I am running out of room.
I opened the old chest for the first time in two years looking for another place to stash my secrets and the ones I’d put in there and promptly forgot about started spilling out around me. At first I was laughing and then I was crying and it got late without my noticing so I closed it back up again. Made my way back to my bed.
And then stared at the flickering lights coming in through the half closed blinds over my bedroom window until quarter to one.