The Room of Me
Everyone is a room in the house of the soul...
Somewhere in a rather modest house is a door. It's plain enough looking for a door. It's varnished wooden surface is scuffed in more than a few places. It opens and closes just like a good door should. It squeeks in protest whenever you push too fast and tends to stick in the frame if you don't push hard enough. When you open it just right, you're treated to a sight.
The room within stretches as far as the eye can see. It's cyclopean in scale, far too large to be contained by the cheap sheetrock walls of the house it rests in. The floor, where you can see it, is a mosaic of broken tiles, a spidery abstract that weaves its way far into the distance. It worms under piles of debris and crumpled sheets of paper. Monumental sculptures lay in strange angles. They could be ruins or simply never properly finished. Strange music floats through the air, picking up substance as it goes, like the aurora borealis, dancing with whirling colors. There are paths cut through the clutter and the ruin, they wander off in directions for distances beyond sight. The walls, heavy with bas relief depicting incomprehensible scenes, rise high above. If there is a ceiling, it's lost beyond scudding clouds.
If you're lucky, you might catch a glimpse of others walking the paths, but they never turn. They never look back. They rummage through those drifting graveyards of discarded ideas, gathering bits here and there as they go, stuffing their newfound treasures into pockets, or gimmicking them together with other souvenirs to see what new things might be made.
This room is mine.
Somewhere in a rather modest house is a door. It's plain enough looking for a door. It's varnished wooden surface is scuffed in more than a few places. It opens and closes just like a good door should. It squeeks in protest whenever you push too fast and tends to stick in the frame if you don't push hard enough. When you open it just right, you're treated to a sight.
The room within stretches as far as the eye can see. It's cyclopean in scale, far too large to be contained by the cheap sheetrock walls of the house it rests in. The floor, where you can see it, is a mosaic of broken tiles, a spidery abstract that weaves its way far into the distance. It worms under piles of debris and crumpled sheets of paper. Monumental sculptures lay in strange angles. They could be ruins or simply never properly finished. Strange music floats through the air, picking up substance as it goes, like the aurora borealis, dancing with whirling colors. There are paths cut through the clutter and the ruin, they wander off in directions for distances beyond sight. The walls, heavy with bas relief depicting incomprehensible scenes, rise high above. If there is a ceiling, it's lost beyond scudding clouds.
If you're lucky, you might catch a glimpse of others walking the paths, but they never turn. They never look back. They rummage through those drifting graveyards of discarded ideas, gathering bits here and there as they go, stuffing their newfound treasures into pockets, or gimmicking them together with other souvenirs to see what new things might be made.
This room is mine.
posted by the dime store coyote | 9:57 PM
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