"I'm gonna stay here for a while, so let's drink some tea while we have time"

J: I just keep dozing off looking at the walls behind my screen today.

K: When was the last time you left your room?

J: Today? Yesterday? It's hard to tell. I wish I didn't have to at all.

K: And what if you had to?

J: Then I'd make a tiny copy of it, pocket-sized, and just carry it around. Maybe a digital version would also come in handy? Like, in case I lose it at the grocery store or something. Then I could always log in and walk around it on my computer if I'm away.

By the way, you want some tea?

And, besides,

What is home? Is it where you feel safe? Where you confront your fears and phobias? Is it where you rest your body every night before you fall asleep?

Maybe.

Where is my home? Does it exist inside my laptop? Can I find it in the pictures I sent to you when I just moved in here? Can I see it on my computer's screen when I open it and find it reflected in the deep darkness of its display? Is it at the end of a corridor I pass every time I have to set my foot inside the grocery store outside?

Perhaps.

I carry my home with me everywhere I end up residing in. It's my furniture, my cutlery, my carpets, my books, the tiniest specs of dust I selectively decided to carry with me. It's in the lock I check continuously before leaving the building, it's in the stoves I glance over in fear of unintended ignition every time I leave the kitchen, it's in the ash tray I splash with water when I'm done smoking and in the video game for which I couldn't decide the setting.

I'm trying my best to reclaim them all, my past traumas, my future problems, my current let downs and all my fascinations from in-between. The ones I had to keep closed inside my closet and the ones I flashed out in public.

They're all here.

And so am I.

Inside a space.

Inside my books.

Inside my furniture.

Inside my screen.

But I just realised, a moment ago, no that far in the past, most likely very recently, that in fact "my room" doesn't need me anymore. It will remain my room for as long as it pleases, whether I'm there or not. You don't need me to experience it on your computer screen when you log into one of these time-wasting, brain-killing interactive mediums I dedicated a portion of my life to create. You don't need me to go inside of it when you step on one of the rugs my fingers pierced with a steel needle to give it shape. You don't need me to smell it when you take a whiff of the sweet scent the flowers I carefully placed in my vases give off.

Do I?