nook

I have a friend who lives alone. His apartment reminds me of somewhere a writer would reside. He's not really a writer but its a cozy little nook which looks like it would yield artistic inspiration and a book or two... or at least a short story, maybe a journal or something. Again, he's not a writer. He sleeps on his floor, plays soccer barefoot and waits tables at a Mexican restaurant. (<--- that's one word I've never learned to spell. "restaurant" not "Mexican". ha.Thanks spell check.)

His apartment reminds me a little of my old room, back home; the home now inhabited by strangers. Bookshelves, black & white prints and blankets. I miss having my own little nest built of color, witticisms and musty paper; with a cat hair, or fifty, thrown in to add a little charm.

I love my roommate, and I like my apartment. But I miss having a space that is all my own. Maybe it's my American individualism or my introverted nature, but I miss it and there is no substitute that can replace it.