I can remember visiting my Grandmother's house when I was little. The permanent smell of baked bread and old photos, the mismatched patched furniture accented by folding TV trays and a stained, tan carpet. The walls covered with height charts and pictures, the clank of the old heater, and the rattle of the windows. The bedrooms holding all of their memories in ancient toys, covered in dust, still waiting anxiously impatient on shelves. Always a friendly, welcoming, place in an awkward sort of way- It's always been home but you never feel as if you can stay, like you're always just a visitor, you never belong.

I can't sleep.

These pinstriped sheets smell of dust, musty from disuse. The room aches, overflowing with memories of fantastic games, pop music, first love, and heartbreak. Even with the wallpaper stripped away to the harsh reality of the concrete beneath, traces of pink paint cling to the past.

My insomnia takes me downstairs, over tan, stained and worn carpets, past TV trays and worn sofas, into a kitchen smelling of baked bread from the night before.

I'm home now, but not really.

I'm just visiting Grandma's house.