Some things never change.

I walked into my room tonight,
after not being home for a long time.
I felt some strange feeling come over me . . .
          . . . disappointment.

It was all the same -
          in the same order,
          the same stacks,
          the same messes.
It was all the same stuff,
things of and in my life.
It wasn’t a feeling of homecoming:
a relaxation of being in my niche,
it was disappointment.
Of all things.
When did my life become distasteful?
When did . . . all of this
          fail to become adequate.
It is adequate.
It’s more than I want.
More than most people have.
Why does my mind reject it?

I don’t even smell like myself.
Who am I? Who am I know?

I stared into the room with my parents
                    sleeping.
I couldn’t bring myself to wake them.
My cat sniffs my hand,
then goes back to sleep.
Perhaps I’m not different.
Perhaps I haven’t changed.
Maybe it’s just not external.

I return to my room,
and look around.
I’m going to leave that behind.
          and that.
          and that.
I feel so alone
          with this revelation.
I’m breaking away.
I’m not the same.
Why does this instill such a feeling of sadness in me?