Sometimes it seems small. When I’ve gotten used to it and I know every square inch so well, it seems to fold in on itself. When I’ve come back home at the exact same time and cooked the same dinner and lighted the same candle and meditated on the same cushion, I get claustrophobic and push on the walls to let in some air.

Other times, right after I’ve gotten back from vacation or when I’m having a friend over and showing them around, I have to stand a little taller to touch the ceiling, my bookcase seems to have another shelf, and the artwork I have hanging up opens my walls out into the world. When I start to look closely enough, it’s really myself that starts to feel small, like I could run for miles and never traverse across my whole apartment.