This week, for the first time in two months, I have a room to myself. A gorgeous, wonderfully large room that is just for me, and my things. And I have a bed! A wonderfully large queen, with wrought iron bed ends and quaint patchwork quilts. I have my own bathroom, that is clean and provides as much hot water as I can request of it. There's a kitchen where I can cook, and bake, and a living area to hang out in. And it is all so very delightful.
I am not sleeping on an air mattress. I am not sleeping on the floor. I am not moving my things out of the way, all too aware that I'm taking up someone else's space, living around and in the way of other people. I'm not cleaning someone else's grossness out of the shower before I use it. I'm not hiding away in someone else's room because they have weird flatmates who scare me downstairs. I'm not using up someone else's hot water. I'm not eating out all the time because their kitchen is gross + dirty.
I'll be forever grateful to the people that have let me crash on their floors, in their spare rooms, on their couches, or air mattresses. That have opened their homes to me, and said welcome.
But I'm ready for my own space now. I'm ready to have my clothes put in drawers, rather than a suitcase. I'm ready have to my books on shelves, rather than in a pile behind a friends door. I'm ready to sleep in a bed that's mine, in a room that I can claim rather than a friends spare room/couch/floor.
I'm ready to settle. To live somewhere permanent. To have a home.
Sadly, this wonderful luxury that I'm currently in (a gorgeous apartment in a villa in Tuscany) is only temporary. Soon, mere days away I'm back to an air mattress on the floor. Luckily, that's temporary, too.
In a few weeks I'll have a place. I'll have a room, and a bed and a kitchen. There will be drawers, and I can buy things without thinking 'Will this fit in my suitcase?'.
In a few weeks, I'll move into a place, and it will be brilliant.
I can't wait.