Crinkle and Disappear

I'm tired. And I'm bored of the stairs that lead up to my apartment. I'm weary of the window that lets the sun in. I don't want to see the sun very much anymore.   I stare around, and I hope that things will change. I hope that things will transform, like a magic trick made real. I see the things, the objects that trap me. How this bed defines me, how those lights around my window show my soul. How that post-it with a scrawled note means so much to me.   Sometimes I look around me, and pretend that the surfaces I can touch evaporated. How this pill-bottle would go up in a gentle pop of lavender smoke. How my sneakers in the corner would brown and crinkle like a dead leaf until they were nothing at all.  I think of the things I love, like my antique ruby ring that cost more than anything I have ever bought. Like the stack of notes my mother sent me when I was away, because she knew I was lonely. How those things define me as much as the things that would go up in smoke, or crinkle and disappear. Does it matter that I prefer a cool, crisp white cotton sheet to the navy jersey one's covering my bed. Does it matter that five stray bobby pins scatter in a corner of my room, one pried open so it's useless. Does it matter that I don't care enough to pick them up.   I'm tired. I don't want to care whether or not I have sour cream on my tacos. I don't want to care if a stud falls of my purse, or if I lose my purse entirely. I'm tired of being contained by myself, by my choices, by my things. I want to have nothing. Once I have nothing, perhaps, then I will be able to find myself. Find myself outside of the splenda-crusted wine glass, outside of the mint green hat, outside of the seven pairs of boots lining my hallway.  Maybe by being more "inside", I can find more beauty in the outside, and again enjoy sunlight.