Privacy. I haven’t had any for almost 5 months today. That’s nearly half a year with no reclusive space. For an extroverted introvert like myself, having no place to call my own is a shattering adjustment.

Privacy. The ability to do whatever you’d like without having to think of others. The selfish safety of your own room.

Privacy. Not leaving the house for nearly a week because you just don’t feel like putting pants on. (Yes, I’ve done this before. No, it probably won’t be the last time it will happen.)

Privacy. Many of my temptations are gone, but I’m perpetually lonely and miss relationships lasting longer than the week at hand. There’s good and bad in everything, they say.

Privacy. Being able to relax into a state where you’re completely vulnerable and honest with yourself. The perfect joy of queuing your favorite album, setting those candles aflame, and sitting on your floor in the dark. Just because you can.

Privacy. The comfort that is found in knowing that no one can find you. Not right now. Not in this place.

Privacy. The lack thereof forcing you to experience the world around you during those moments when you’re simply not comfortable doing so. And then being able to revel in the happiness that is discovered in that forced exploration.

Privacy. Important. In small doses.