A guest would assume I’ve been stockpiling for a war against boredom. Enter my apartment, and you will see that my shelves are overflowing with hundreds of books, and my coffee table is stacked with magazines. My television is armed with Netflix and a Nintendo Switch (locked and loaded with the new Animal Crossing). The closet boasts a more old-fashioned armory: board games, calligraphy sets, and crochet kits sit ready for battle.
I’m living in one of the fanciest prison cells of all time. The ceilings are high enough to make a claustrophobe comfortable, and the fridge is stocked to the satisfaction of even the pickiest eater. Large houseplants, scented candles, and artwork painted by beloved family members work in unison to create a warm, pleasant atmosphere.
I have everything I want here, and yet I still want to leave. Freedom is the only thing I’m lacking, and I would trade almost anything to have it back.
I’ve been in here for just 22 days, and I’m losing my mind. (I know, play me the world’s smallest violin from a balcony in Italy.) Given the suffering of others, the only justifiable feeling I can have is gratitude. To complain about this…
