i like to think that if i knocked on the door of where i lived from birth to age 11, the people that live there now would just let me in without question. just bc it used to be my house.
something so comforting about waking up in the room you grew up in as a kid
itβs such a familiar yet distant view, like waking up to a past life - the posters, the books, the shelves lined with stuffed animals and random trinkets
laying down very flat in bed after working my icky closing shift at my icky retail job feels so yummy. i can feel my individual spinal cords clicking back into place
