My desk at home has plenty of space, but I realize now that a cramped cubicle meant a friend three feet away.
The day has two hours more than before, but fewer for myself.
The air is cleaner outside, but I only get to inhale my own stale breath.
I can watch a new movie without getting annoyed by a couple making out in the next row, or a kid throwing popcorn. But I realize now that I was witnessing a hundred different stories, not one.
I realize now that my daily circular commute was a window into many worlds streaming past, unlike the swiveling door I’m stuck in now.
A home isn’t a home if you can’t leave. All my life I tried to reach my destination faster, but never stopped to think if the journey was perhaps the point.