As I look out the window, I am struck by the anonymity I have attained — some unassuming shade of my former self. I am not the person I was before or even the person I was now, so recently. I am “post”: a constant discourse between the ongoing past and present. Who I am anymore is for anyone to say.

Gazing at my transported, rumpled bedsheets, I feel too tired to correct the state of my “new” home — a place like any other, worse than some, better than most. I look listlessly on the white, barren walls and am no longer moved by the impulse to define or personalize. Tired and empty, the crumbling remains of an extrovert.

There was a time when I cared because I didn’t know where home was. Post, I know where home is and am devoid of care.

I gave a piece of my identity to each of my beds. They were…nothing more than beds. I slept and sweated and dreamt and could not take it back. Post, I have nothing to show for it.

We are defined by place as much as we define our place. These old significations fade but never disappear, haunting what we think we have become.