This is, in fact, her life

"(...) (S)he sees how easily she could slip out of this life - these empty and arbitrary comforts. She could simply leave it and return to her other home, where neither Sally nor Richard exists; where there is only the essence of Clarissa, a girl grown into a woman, still full of hope, still capable of anything. It is revealed to her that all her sorrow and loneliness, the whole creaking scaffold of it, stems simply from pretending to live in this apartment among these objects, with kind, nervous Sally. and that if she leaves she'll be happy, or better than happy. She'll be herself. She feels briefly, wonderfully alone, with everything ahead of her. 
Then the feeling moves on. (...) This is, in fact, her apartment, her collection of clay pots, her mate, her life. She wants no other."


Michael Cunningham: The Hours