It’s just a cabinet. And not even a particularly sturdy one. I’m impressed it’s still standing and that the doors haven’t been ripped completly off. It’s not quiet. I can’t get that lucky. I briefly consider lining it with scraps of fabric to insulate myself further from everything that exists outside of my cabinet.

I’m not designed for this world. I’m not wired right. The older I get, the more aware I am of not being like the rest. Or at least like the other people I know. They ENJOY the chaos and closeness of our way of life. My sister does her best to never be alone. To never have to face her own thoughts and fill the void that peace and quiet brings with it.

I crave the distance. The feeling of space that comes with no one being within reach or brushing up against me. The feeling that makes my skin crawl. The worst part of communal living is the casual approach to physical contact.

I can’t give up my cabinet. It’s a space all my own. Well, not mine. But for the 30 minutes I can spare before someone will come to find me, it’s my space. My peace. My slice of sanity between the crush of overcrowded streets, shared beds, and meals with far too many mouths sitting at the table. I can hear people passing through the stairwell like migrating animals.

They say this is the way we’re supposed to live. Community based, close family groups, in hordes that keep piling more and more people into limited apartments that are bursting at the seams. People are social creatures. They crave and thrive on constant physical contact. Except me. I crave these moments that I can salvage. There must be something wrong with me if these 30 minute retreats go against everything my family wants from life itself.

I’m not sure what they would think about the idea of taking a break for yourself once a day or so. Probably wonder if I needed to visit a doctor. And then lock the cabinet. Or worse, take the doors off.