I’ve lived in the same house for the duration of my life; by now, this place is so drearily familiar to me. I’ve grown accustomed to the strange smells that waft through all three levels of the house, traveling in clusters.

I am used to the stained white couch in the den area and the drawer in the closet in which I have been stocking full of my trinkets and gatherings for over three years. I’ve even slept in almost every room at some point or another during the extensive time I’ve spent there.

Despite the abundant amount of familiarities it holds to me, I have never felt fully adjusted to this place. I am not nearly as comfortable as I would like to be here, and I would not consider this place to be my home. This is simply a house, and one that I consider to be a steppingstone to the home of my dreams.

Contrary to a wincingly common response, my own personal “dream home” would likely never be featured on Cribs. For me, an ideal dwelling is solely somewhere I can freely express myself and feel wholly comfortable. This prospective abode is a personal reflection of the eventual inner-peace I hope to soon accomplish.

Until the time comes, I will continue to persevere in serene anticipation. I will remain patient in my awaiting this new chapter. I’ve always interpreted life as a rollercoaster packed with highs and lows, twists and turns. When the highs are so beautifully impenetrable, so priceless, the lows seem completely worth enduring.

I just want to savor them, these temporary, intangible, wonderful feelings. I’ll chase them for as long as I have to before they’re in my own hands. If that entails ceaseless patience and perseverance on my end, I am forever willing. I’ve got something to keep me going, and that’s enough.