I’ve lived in about 75 different rooms. All of them, at some point in time were painted red, none of them necessarily by me. Most of them have had a window, or two windows, or several windows. These windows were sometimes covered with an opaque film of dust while others were inexplicably clean… transparent. The transparent ones never really offered much in the way of privacy and the opaque ones never let me see out. For years I traversed these two states… at times hidden behind a thick film of skin and snot, while at others naked before the empty glare of morning… never really feeling at home in either. When wallowing in loneliness I was constantly bothered by the grave cold of not being. I struggled to feel anything. Life slowed until all color drained from it. Just. Empty. When basking in glare I was crippled by a persistent self-consciousness. Every move felt analyzed. Each breath scrutinized. Life bristled with the hot insecurity of fame. Too. Much. Each of these rooms were part of my life. Each of these rooms defined me, but only for as long as I lived in them. I’ve lived in about 75 different rooms. All of them, at some point in time were me, or not necessarily me.