I feel cold.  The air conditioner is on and the window is open — trying everything to ventilate my room.  The cigarette smoke is seeping through the concrete wall into my lungs.  I get so angry that I can’t take one breath of fresh air, so I throw my pillow against the bed.  Then I spray air fresher for about 30 seconds longer than I’m supposed to.  Why do I want to write when I’m frustrated?  Yeah because I want to share my frustration.  I do not want pity or someone to say, “I’m sorry.”  I just want to vent.  I don’t care the response.  I just want to vent.  Why can’t we just vent without getting a response?  That’s another reason why I like writing because I’m writing for myself.  I’m not writing to get a response.  Although, it seems many people write to get a response.  I guess…

Hmm, that poses a worthy discussion.  Does the general majority write to get a response or write to relieve an emotion?       

I’m almost home.  But, really what’s so green about the grass at home?  Oh yes, freedom.  Ironically, that metaphorically (I like adverbs) ties into my initial thought. Ventilation = Freedom.  I’m in a room with minimal ventilation and minimal freedom. It’s really the goal of going home that’s driving me forward everyday and the obstacle of naiveness that’s keeping me here.  I feel quite ridiculous that I haven’t left the hotel (except 3x) in over one month.  My skin is pale, my hair is dry, my muscles are soft and I’m not writing this for compassion.  I’m writing because I want to.  It’s easy to see the physical changes.  It’s that darn inner metamorphosis in murky water. It’s buried so deep, I don’t know when to stop digging.  

We’ll get there, 

b.e.d.