Still Living at Home

I could feel the sunlight searching for my face. Instead, it fell against pale blue walls, casting shadows. Warmth trickled down across its rays, chasing bitterness back, but my feet remained cold. And my body sank further into bed, refusing to surrender sleep, but the sun still waited for me to rise. And I finally did.

Four empty walls surrounded me. Once upon a time, an assortment of posters had graced these walls, ranging from Bruce Lee, The Crow, Steven Seagal and even the original red Power Ranger, but as a cruel joke, my brothers invaded one day when I was out, tearing them all down. And over the years, pictures and portraits replaced what was gone, but now these walls remain empty, a reminder that I should have left a long time ago.

And I did. I tried living on my own, and it wasn't as easy as I thought. Debt tied a noose around my neck and pulled me down, and the only way for me to cut loose was to return home. And I left again, but I should have known better. Living on Long Island is a high expense, and you have to figure food, gas, and bills into whatever the rent maybe. And if you work at a small newspaper or jump in-between temp jobs, you have a better chance of drowning than swimming to shore.

And here I am. I returned home over five years ago, struggling to find a foothold out there in the real world. Numerous classified ads met my gaze, but they were looking for experience that I lacked. And working in retail was choking me, but it was the only job that I seemed to fall back into. And my father aided my search, pushing me toward state jobs, and finally I gave up the hunt to find a place for myself in the Media/Publishing world. But I am breathing today.

And still I live at home. Crisis wavered by my doorstep, telling me that the world had broken down, and to abandon ship, but where would I go? Who would I ask help from when everyone is struggling to keep their heads above water? No, I'm not going anywhere. As long as my family needed me, this is where I would stay, but would I ever leave again?

Dreams burned at my fingertips. Over these years, I have fed the fires of creativity, enveloping pages and screens, and words poured forth from mind and heart and soul. I'm closer now. I can feel it, but opportunity has yet to knock on my door. And as I bide my time, waiting, I walk down these hallways, staring at pictures of long ago, but where have they gone now? Where have those happy moments in time run to, and would they ever return?

This house is far from an empty nest, and time weighs heavily upon it. But repairs are to be expected with age, but crisis rears its ugly head again. And now my family and I wait to see what will be with our broken ground situation, and there's no telling what lies ahead. But still we wait and see, and now I'm staring at these four walls again, wondering where that little girl has gone and who she has become.

And when the time comes to leave, where would I go? What kind of life would I live, or should I remain here, close to home? What if they need me still? My dreams are like little flames racing across my fingertips as I type deep into the night, wondering a million thoughts, and the soft, full moon is a pool of emotions drifting deep within. And I have no answers. Every day melts into each passing night, and I remain here. And these four walls do feel like a cage, a prison, but it is because I know that I hide away. And when my family no longer needs me here, I will have to step out into the world again, but will I land on my feet this time? And will my dreams finally set me free?