Home yet?

After getting home from work yesterday, I was at the kitchen sink washing dishes and thought, "I could get used to this." The kitchen and the living room make me happy. Open, well-lit and well-stocked, a mixture of funky utility and artistic intellectualism; those rooms feel like they could be home.

But in my room, laying on my bed, I still feel terribly suspicious trying to get to sleep. Constantly watching the door like the Wolf-Man of 20 years ago will once again attempt a break-in of my new home.

The prospect of moving was always such an exciting one, until this year. I enjoyed the sweaty, cranky, hard-labor mess that it was because it signified an opportunity to reinvent myself. But I'm beginning to think those moves were attempts at denying my past and fleeing the present; an unwillingness to accept myself. And while I'm a huge advocate for the skill of reinvention, for experience for learning's sake and changing that about yourself which you don't like, well, I don't want to say there are some things you can't change, but maybe I think that's partially true. That we each have fundamental qualities that we may or may not recognize, and there's a point at which you accept what you can't change, and change what you can.

Is that true? Is that what I believe? Truly? It sounds too status quo. But I'm also tired to fighting myself.

At any rate, perhaps my tiny room will feel more like mine once I arrange it satisfactorily and decorate it. Maybe. Or maybe I'm hesitant to accept it knowing it's temporary.