Trees with lights

My neighbors have six trees by our shared fence, all of them wrapped with lights. I have yet to figure out all the times they turn them on but tonight they shine brightly and some of them twinkle (a thing I've never noticed).

If I look closely at the picture above, which I took through my window, I can see my vanity (covered with mail and notes-to-self and books) and I can see myself. Vaguely.

There's something odd about living in my childhood room. I feel vague, translucent, ghostly. Like an eraser has gone over me and yet the traces remain, or a like a piece of tracing paper lies over me.

I'm not supposed to be here. Not permanently, anyway. And although I know this and know that I'm not staying here forever, I have a plan, I'm moving out, I'm moving on, but somehow I haven't allowed myself to BE here at all. If I woke up somewhere else, I'd swear that the past seven months were a dream, not question it at all. But I am awake and not being where I am feels wasteful.