My Prison Cell

My room here at my parents' house is very small. It is about 9x9, with 9-foot ceilings. It's literally a box. As I lay here on my twin-sized bed, on a mattress that is so saggy there is a nice divot I enjoy sleeping in, I stare around my strange box of a room and feel oddly like a prisoner. I know I'm not, in fact at any time I can get up, open my door, and leave.

However, laying here, staring at my boxes of possessions I've yet to unpack and my furniture that doesn't really fit in here, looking at my faux wood blinds in my windows that are ever so slightly different measurements from one another, and piles and piles of shoes, I can't help but feel trapped. Not by my parents or anything like that, but by me. I feel lost and trapped within myself. I've begun to feel like I don't know who I am anymore, and laying here in this cube with beige walls and white fixtures, I feel...disappointed in myself.

I was always one of those decisive girls. I always knew who I was. What I wanted. Where I was going. Now I find myself, two weeks from turning 22, and my whole life feels like it means nothing. All my years of working and trying to become something in my life has been all for naught.

I have a lot of pondering to do in my tiny cell.

Keep it real readers.