Spots of Blue-Tac scatter the walls like stars. The posters have been laid to rest for an indeterminable period of time. The trinkets have been lovingly wrapped, the floor swept, the bed unmade - now a skeleton standing in a big cold chamber.
I pick up the last worn box of my life and lean my weight against the door frame for just a moment. A myriad of feelings compete for attention. Sadness and loss for a retreat; relief to return to a real world, where more than reverie exists. It is a bittersweet goodbye, as they usually all are. Fear, resilience, anger and self-pity also voice their opinions.
These conflicting emotions swirl in my head and start shouting so loudly it all becomes white noise. I rest my head back and close my eyes. I scrunch up my face in a way I know is deeply unattractive and I bite my bottom lip like a small child. I open my eyes and go back to feeling numb.
The flat will still be there. Situated beneath a friends, I know I will visit it often - but it will never again be The Den. It will keep no more secrets, shelter no more melancholy, and harbor no more fugitives on the run from the biting jaws of reality and the responsibilities associated with admitting to it's existence. No longer a haven, merely a studio apartment. Just one underneath another. Indistinguishable from any other along the coast.
The near instantaneous loss of character disturbs me. How easy it is to be stripped bare.
