when we moved out of our first apartment we were excited and melancholic. We had lived there for seven entire years. The movers came and took all our stuff and then I was left standing in the middle of the living room--the biggest room in the whole place.
Was this it? I thought. This room is so much smaller than it should be. How could this place house my entire crafting area, my desk, two couches, out TV, multiple bookshelves? Almost all of my 20s were spent in this room, and now the signs of life were gone and it had shrunk by half.
It might sound stupid but I think the apartment got bigger for us. I think we brought a lot of love and fun and spent so much time there, that slowly over the years we massaged the walls and decorated it in ways that it liked and in exchange it gave us space to play, and love, and be sad and angry, and most of all: be safe.
I still dream about you, my darling apartment.
