My blinds are always open

Because, for some reason, Inside without Outside 

Is suffocating

My shelves are full but my library is empty

My fan never stops spinning

The carpet is stained -

makeup here, paint there

and half a dozen projects line the drawers

I bother to keep useless things 

because I'm a sucker for memories 

and nostalgia is my weakness

The overflowing box in my closet bears witness

Tidiness and creativity wage war in these walls - 

It's either the bed or scrapbook that's made.

Open my journals and you'll see me

trying to make sense of God and life

Neat covers, messy pages

Such is the wandering mind.

Call to mind the lifelong distance

I traveled to make it mine.

You'll see that I sometimes just survive

But usually I live

I live for what inspires me in the moment,

Truthfully.

Ideally,

I long to live for what higher calling keeps me here 

Within these walls.

Where I live.

Where I'm here.