I sit here vibrating, an aftermath of two cups of Dunkin Donuts coffee and lack of sweater. It's bitter, burning right down the gastrointestinal tract, a feeling common among this age's popular drugs. The 1.5 inch gap in the doorway where I sit is my only light source. My world has been reduced to black and shadows, cast by the dresses and bags around me. I feel like compacted storage, but as this sensation slowly passes, I find that it's quite comfortable to be writing in a closet.

If this is strange, no one notices. The echoes in the kitchen find it difficult to penetrate the walls of my enclosure. It's safe here, albeit dusty—I could hug the silence.

And I'm not angry. I'm not scared either. When I'm here, lines tend to merge in a scene, a blurry, chaotic dream. There's no right and wrong crisply outlined for me, like back in the playhouse days when swings were swings and the roof was miles high.

But there's no one, nothing to judge me here. No red pens jabbing indiscriminately at my heart and soul. No numbers ranking my place among others. Not even screams piercing the two by four walls. Left, right, wrong—it's all tangible. It has no place here and it doesn't matter.

I sit here, still and quiet. I feel the burning subside slowly, and find that I'm tired. The 1.5 inches of light is fading, gradually leaving me to be enveloped by the gentle shade around me. It's calm now and I realize that I will be missed soon. As I step out of the tiny room, I feel the stillness follow me to the door and stop. I stand, staring at the space that I had occupied welcoming me back, aware of the conflict brewing up again a short distance away.

I want to turn back, reach out and be held by the inner workings of my psyche. I stand in the doorway, wincing at the growing clamor.

I'm not ready yet, I decide quickly, and close the door behind me once more.