Silverfish

Recaged

I sit on my chair in an upright position, staring out in front of myself–hoping, waiting.  This particular chair is quite comfortable, it's identity entirely repurposed from its original occupation of collecting dust in the attic above the barn. Underneath its soft beige cover the chair appears a sort of caustic, unappealing red, dissident with the rest of the apartment's color scheme.

I  could not stand to see that color any longer, so I covered it up with a more even disposition.

Across from the chair sits my couch–almost completely untouched by anyone else–along with an unsteady  black coffee table, missing an essential screw at one of its ends.

I turn to my right slightly to stare out at my patio, the gentle autumn breeze lightly touching the two Boston ferns at either side of the wooden fence.

I feel trapped here.

I spent so much time allowing myself to own my space, and now, it feels like a prison. Is it because my academics are now exclusively remote? Or perhaps it may be that I am almost always alone here?

I used to find solace in my own confinement; yearning for the day in which I am able to be euphorically alone. Now it feels like a punishment.

I need a permanent answer, something definite and rational. I know it is all in my mind but that is where I feel trapped the most.

I will not be able to leave that, so instead, I must remember what it was like before. Before this place felt like a cage.

I want comfort in myself again.