I used to write only at night.
In the depth of darkness,
almost waiting for the sun to rise.
Tonight I thought I would try
this old habit again.
I have a new job on the horizon
that I am so excited about,
I haven't been this happy,
well since October.
I feel like these past few months
are a blur of living in past moments.
Ones I try to remind myself of
daily, just to keep them alive.
As I sit at my computer, listening
to sirens outside my window,
I can't imagine not living here.
I really love this apartment, and
I will be very sad to leave it in
June when our lease is up.
Mostly I will be sad because this
feels like home to me.
The home a single person on my
own can possibly have without
some kind of family or significant
other.
My dream is to have a house, and
I know as June hangs in the months
ahead, that this will not be something
I can do yet.
I long for a home of my own. To fill
with my things, and possibly someone
else's, but definitely a place I can call
home for more than 12 months.
I hate packing, and leaving a place that
I know has nothing to remember me by.
Or more importantly moving to a place
that holds no memories whatsoever.
I think of my college apartment and
all the crazy times I had there.
The crazy blue carpet.
My huge room that I had two beds in.
My ugly couch, that ironically matched
the crazy blue carpet.
My built-in bookshelves.
The living room floor that I slept on, laid
and thought about my first night,
and that I did handstands on religiously.
My balcony, where I would sit and
write at the early hours of morning.
Of all the times I would walk down
the stone stairs and imagining myself
falling and the amount of damage
that would be done.
Getting locked out of my apartment by
the one other person that had a key.
My neighbor across the hall, and how I
would read all the notes left on his door.
So many parties, so many nights alone,
and still so many happy memories.
I don't feel like I have that here.
Like I know I will be leaving and so
the memories are lost on other places.
So in light of that old place I used to live in,
here are the words I found two years ago
to write about it.
"1233"
The gold sign on the blue door read "1233", my rented home for the next eight months. Inside held comfort and solitude. It was exactly what I needed.
The carpet was blue. It oddly matched the couch. The walls were newly painted white; I knew this because I still smelled the fumes. The room also smelled of mildew. That would have to be fixed. I took in all nine hundred square feet of empty space, trying to figure out how I would decorate to make it feel more like home.
I noticed the built in bookshelf first. This would be where all my books would go. The one thing that helped me through anything I had experienced thus far. I lay down on the carpet before any of the furniture arrived. The fan turning round and round with such routine. I wondered if I would ever get used to being alone in this place. Would this space ever feel like home? Like the home my parents had built for me. The home I had just left.
I walked out on the balcony and listened to the soothing water running at the pool below. I took in every sound I heard. These were the sounds I was going to have to live with for eight months. The water running below, the people outside playing football, the fire drills, the person underneath me playing video games at two in the morning; all these sounds I had to get used to in my new home.
I walked back inside, taking in the kitchen. Popsicles still in the freezer from the last person. Decent amount of cabinet space, since it was just me living there it would be plenty. The bathroom was small. The door almost hit the toilet when it opened. The shower and the vanity were only far enough apart to fit in a toilet and a cabinet. This would take some getting used to.
My bedroom was huge. I could fit about three of my bathrooms inside of it. I would have plenty of room for all my furniture and for whatever else I wanted to do with it. The closet even held all of my clothes. Walking back out of my room, I realized the floor made quite a bit noise. It creaked underneath my feet. The sound made me cringe.
Once it was full of all my furniture, I was left alone. Alone was a concept I did not know much about at that point in my life. Alone was definitely something out of the ordinary for me. I laid there thinking, now what? Now what do I do with all this time on my hands? This was my new home, I would have to make it mine. Fill it with all the things that make a place feel like home. At least the best I knew how.
First thing…pictures. I definitely had plenty of those. I pulled out memories of the past, some I wanted to revisit, some I did not. I placed the smiling faces all over the apartment. So everywhere I looked someone that cared about me was looking at me smiling. With all those good memories came the bad ones as well. The pictures of the boyfriend I had just left. The friends I no longer kept in contact with. The relatives I had started to forget. It was just me. I was on my own.
I felt like the world was somewhere else now. The nine hundred square feet of space was somehow separated from everything else that was going on. Surely no one would understand anything about me now. I had left everything behind. This place that smelled of mildew, was never the temperature I wanted it to be, and would swallow me whole. This was my home.
My life would never be the same after that place. Loneliness became a part of my everyday existence. I didn't want to go home at night because I was reminded how alone I really was. The boyfriend that I had left started to creep back into my thoughts which made the evenings much harder to deal with. So I did something else to keep myself from thinking of him.
Soon my evenings consisted of leaving my home and going to drink with strangers. I had become such a lush, coming home to my empty apartment no longer pained me. Alcohol was the remedy for my loneliness. I would be so hung-over the next day that the soothing water below would be annoying to my pounding head. The people playing football below would wake me up too early. The guy playing video games was now just a soundtrack to passing out.
Halfway through my eight months, I realized this was not who I was, so I got a puppy. Another life to come home to in the afternoon, someone I could not give up on. My apartment was then transformed. We were a team now. This was the home I would be proud of.
I got over the boyfriend I left, and I made new friends. This nine hundred square foot space suddenly became a home for me and my puppy. It was my solitude when I felt like the world was crushing me from all around. The large bedroom was my place of rest, relaxation, and contemplation, and I shared it now with my puppy. The kitchen was a place where my friends gathered to have dinner. The large living room was where I would lay and watch television or play with my puppy. The balcony was where I would sit, smoke cigarettes and write. I would write into the early morning, learning about myself with every word that formed on the paper. The bathroom was still small though.
Those eight months went too quickly. That space, that place I made my home, changed my life. I changed my major from chemistry to arts and performance, to pursue creative writing, which had become my passion. I changed my outlook on what defines me as a person. I became more independent. Alone in the nine hundred square foot space that was 1233.
the walk
11 years ago