I live constantly on edge, an explosive always ready to blow, rarely comfortable in any situation, except the little bridge world of my Den. My wanderlust heart might hate being confined, but swaddled down the little gap between the wall and couch on the livingroom floor isn’t constraining, it’s safe. Barely enough room to curl up, dark under the blanket roof, and messy from weeks spent sleeping and working there, it looks more like a second-grader’s pillow fort than a teenager’s refuge from a stressful reality. I built it a few weeks ago on a whim; hauled the old white couch away from the wall and lined the new crevice with throw pillows and a soft blanket, topped with a cover to keep away prying eyes. I haven’t slept in my own bed since
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When I do finally stumble back home, I collapse into my Den for an hour before I can muster the energy to do anything productive. It isn’t much to look at, white sides with a tan-and-white blanket, smaller than a coffin, but it’s inviting, drawing me in. The aesthetic isn’t important, anyway. It only matters that the pillows are better than any mattress, the wifi comes through strongly, and I can see the sky through the big sliding glass doors. It’s calming, the sharp divide between our jungle of a backyard that we never get around to fixing, that always seems peaceful in the fading dusk light, and the wild cacophony of my …show more content…
I rest my back against the wall and balance my binders and folders on my knees in my den, barely enough room to sit cross-legged. When I hit the extreme of my ability, eyes sagging, head buzzing, rambling off long strings of non sequiturs to whatever unknown entities exist out of my narrow line of sight, I let my responsibilities drop for the night, replacing them with an old stuffed animal to hold. Not even bothering to put away my notebooks, I curl up with the lights still on and the TV still humming. I’m prepared to leap up if need be, already mentally in tomorrow, and fall asleep with my senses full of
When I do finally stumble back home, I collapse into my Den for an hour before I can muster the energy to do anything productive. It isn’t much to look at, white sides with a tan-and-white blanket, smaller than a coffin, but it’s inviting, drawing me in. The aesthetic isn’t important, anyway. It only matters that the pillows are better than any mattress, the wifi comes through strongly, and I can see the sky through the big sliding glass doors. It’s calming, the sharp divide between our jungle of a backyard that we never get around to fixing, that always seems peaceful in the fading dusk light, and the wild cacophony of my …show more content…
I rest my back against the wall and balance my binders and folders on my knees in my den, barely enough room to sit cross-legged. When I hit the extreme of my ability, eyes sagging, head buzzing, rambling off long strings of non sequiturs to whatever unknown entities exist out of my narrow line of sight, I let my responsibilities drop for the night, replacing them with an old stuffed animal to hold. Not even bothering to put away my notebooks, I curl up with the lights still on and the TV still humming. I’m prepared to leap up if need be, already mentally in tomorrow, and fall asleep with my senses full of