I might be moving again although not far this time; not across state lines or countrysides, but just a few miles into a different apartment in a slightly more urban area. Another move; this one just months after the last--a year at one fort in VA, a year before that at another fort nearer to Virginia Beach, a year before that all across the country in Washington State to recount my most recent nomadic history. Lately, I've been admiring the interiors of teenage bedrooms I spy on Tumblr and Flickr and nurturing a growing jealousy. I wonder what it is like to have a personal space you mark so completely--walls you paint bizarre colors in a fit of pubescent creativity then cover with posters of celebrities you'll cringe at in a year and rip down with blushing cheeks. Rooms with corners filled with scribbles you hide from your parents behind furniture and dressers coated with stickers; shelves filled with evidence of a stationary life, cluttered and crowded with no thought to how delicate crystal will travel. I grew up moving. We did sometimes paint the walls (in sensible pastels) and there was a set of paintings and photographs that were routinely packed up and unpacked and nailed on otherwise bare walls. My shelves were not empty, but instead filled with art supplies and books. But there was always this nagging sense of the temporary; my bedroom was scratched instead of tattooed with my personality. Knick-knacks were avoided and clean lines favored. I never missed it much growing up, but now with yet another impending relocation I'm eager to sign a lease for a year and throw caution to the wind in regards to my bedroom. I want a chalkboard wall, I want a wall so cluttered with picture frames you can't tell what color lies beneath, I want shelves filled to the brim--spilling over with every random thing that catches my eye; I want it to be a nuisance to dust. I want people to walk into my room and feel how wholly it is mine. To claim a space completely, even if only for a short time.