My Parents Living Room

I'm home alone. It happens somewhat frequently, a whole house to myself. Yet here I am, in my room, with my things and my thoughts. I could be downstairs with the big tv and a movie or some other activity, but instead I sit in my room at my desk.

Living with my parents has it's benefits sure, the rent they make me pay is small, they often cook me meals, I don't have to do all the chores. There is, however, a few downsides of course. They don't entirely vibe with my politics or my gender, they aren't always the nicest to me, and my opinion doesn't matter.

That last point is why I still find myself in my own room even on these days where I am given the whole house to myself. My room is that. Mine. I chose how to decorate it. I choose what goes in and comes out. My sanctuary. The other rooms in the house aren't mine. They don't have any of "me" in them. Decorated and structured in ways that don't feel right to me, with any of my inputs or opinions being met with either confusion or hostility.

That living room ends up feeling not hostile, but not homely to me. The sort of place where you don't QUITE feel at home, or like you should be there. The vibes, as some would say, are off.

So here I sit, in my one small corner of the house, while the rest sits empty. In a house that doesn't feel like a home. In a place I don't feel I truly belong.

contact me!: luna@soup3461.com

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