A chair, an ageing rug, a wooden cupboard. A bed, a laptop, a bedside cabinet. An iron, a charger, a towel. A shoe here, a trouser there. A sock here a sock there. A plate in the corner, a mug on the rug, a plate holding the door. A bag under the bed, befriended by dust, besieged by wood. A jacket hanging on the cupboard door, suffocated by some shirts, neighboured by some hangers.
These chiefly constitute the contents of my room to a viewer. A room that looks bland and lifeless even at its most glorious days – the rare days when the brush and the mop pay it a gratifying visit. Nevertheless, here are many more things invisible to the naked eye – subtle things that, though beyond any meaningful description of words, alleviate my existence. As unadorned as it may seen, there is a decorative charm that uplifts this austere space and enlivens it.
Upon the four colourless, naked walls are my stories engraved – every conversation, every song I sang in high spirits, every cry, every moan, every element of elation, and every shriek of excitement. Here they are all, with my name neatly embossed in large print. The bed provides me some solace from the strain that has saddled me the day that passed, and there I repose in its comfort, the glowering grey clouds above my head replaced by the bright ceiling. My pillow gladly makes my confidante, with no recompense for the damages resulting from my firm grips in times of glee and fierce punches in times of gloom – it always seems to bounce right back up. My quilt clearly volunteers to become my shield, as I unload my inhibitions me at the door, allowing me to become myself without pretence or pose.
Inside these plain walls is a cosy and a warm place, even in the harshest of winters; a place affluent with countless comforts, though not seen or felt by anyone but me. A particularly familiar scent waylays my nostrils at door of this room every time I enter it. Not a scent like the scented blooms Primroses or Lavenders, but one well wrought upon the senses over the years. Without interruptions here, an unvaried cycle of life oscillates between the dawning of the sun and its dusking, eagerly awaiting my arrival everyday so I can share my proceedings of the day for them to record – for even my deepest thoughts can be heard by the washed-out walls. It is only in this room, this room of mine when I resign to, where my limbs renounce their fight, my mind relinquishes its protest to make sense of insanity and, eventually, the insatiable hunger for tranquillity is somewhat achieved, despite the clutter. It is in this room, that I have penned many of my favourite poems and passages of prose. It is this very room, which I describe here;
It is my only realm of independence
On which I retain my sole dependence
But in this realm of independence of mine, I have had several relationship problems and squabbles to gain freedom and at times wrote;
This bed’s comfort I have
But sleeps comfort I have none
This blanket that envelopes me like a glove
Is a tangled web of worry that cannot be undone
Like a ship capsized amid a blustery storm
And the tremulous seas turn and twist
While the hapless crew stick into form
And struggle for some air to subsist
But at times, the great joys this companion of mine gives me is expressed;
Like the bird that chirrups from its prominent perch
Safe and sound, on the thin branches of the birch
And the undulating melody that floats the air
Such is my sensation, when I lie in here
Only if the occupants of my room could speak would my life be out in the open, for it’s only they who document my comings and goings and my life’s minutes without fail. If only the pillow that bears the burden of my pain could be made to speak, would my silent wails be heard across the corridors of the house. Only if these colourless walls, that now stand mute, could be made to speak, would both my moments of merriment and melancholy be made known. If only the fractured mirror on my faded cupboard could be made to speak would my body be laid bare and only by opening its handle-less doors would my closest companions be uncovered, lying in heaps, one atop the other, all lifeless without me and I, bare with out them. If only permission could be sought from the door of this room of mine to open wide, and it would yield all its fruits, piled up, after all its years of harvest, for opening the door to this room, opens the door to my soul, thus making the invisible visible!