I always packed light when I travel, much in the same way as I always preferred to look toward the places and people I knew to be only transient elements in the greater scheme of my life. A room is just a room, after all, and I figured I’d know many of them all over the world by the time I ever got too tired to travel again. I always tried to overlook size and disregard comfort, knowing that while throughout my childhood each of the many rooms I lived in grew larger, the opposite effect was bound to characterize my young adulthood. 

But now, when it is most crucial that I begin to formulate my own ideas and opinions on everything in the world, I cannot help thinking more and more as to whether that which I have always wanted is truly what I must go on wanting. Sometimes I think I do want a room of my own after all—someplace I can put down roots and bury the family wines and furnish with the intention of inhabiting come hell or high waters.

It’s a terrifying idea to me, actually. I can’t consciously ever want a room to ever become more than just a room, or to willingly tie myself down to a house, or a plot of land. But I can understand now how easily people can tell themselves “yes, I want the one with the bay window, the Venetian china pattern, the damask curtains”, because it all starts with tying oneself down to something/anything/someone. 

My parents’ house:

My dorm at school: