It's another fall day, the sort that isn't so bad and looming into winter. It's crisp and perfect for wanderlust. I've been saving my chickens and trying to figure out what the next move is going to be. I want somewhere, anywhere new. Something that says starting over and second chances to do it right. How many of those have I had and nothing ever seems better?

Right now, my days are spent hating myself. Hating that I have to lock my cat up in my room because the apartment I live in is cluttered with useless items that he knocks over in his pursuit of happiness and curiosity. Materialism is alive and well. I want desperately for it to be clean lines, clean aesthetics, clean anything, really, so that he can play to his heart's content. I feel wretched each morning as I lock up my room, saying, trying to convince myself that it's just for a little while. Part of me just wants to throw every piece of the apartment over. The stupid vases, the ugly pictures, the clutter, the clutter, the mounts of useless crap, and the dust that will never go away (heaven forbid ANYONE dusts - and there's a wonder about allergies?).

It's laboring on the soul. I feel like an unwanted guest in my own apartment. I just want to leave, return to my home, my place of rest. This isn't it. The overstuffed fridge with food that will go bad. The freezer that barely closes. The stove that's never cleaned after it's used. I just want to fall off of the world for a little bit. My heart palpitates irregular when I'm at this place. It feels like a prison. And at times, I feel like the prison master, forcing my helpless animal ward into a life that he didn't ask for. I feel awful everyday I continue to live there. And I feel like a broken record for every breath that I use to say how unhappy I am. It's everything I guess, and there's no refuge in the place I live.

Blur.