Like most people I know, I have my own warehouse at home I call
MY ROOM.
My apologies for the constant disarray of my place. I'm merely writing down my thoughts to exercise my seemingly rusting literature. This is not the first time that I would write something in regards to my sacred room. I remember how I have described this place as the sole spectator of my restless existence. This is where I have seen myself on my most extreme days. This where I have slept the whole day and stayed up the whole night. This is where I have jumped in joy and cried 'til I'm dry. This is where I praised myself and hurt my life.
So, how do I define my room? Stating that I considered it as my bestfriend is a boring cliche. Saying that it is my refuge is much more boring. So, I guess I'll just say that it is my ASTRAL RIDE. Excellent metaphor. Being in this room is like being dissociated from the world outside and associated to my world inside.
Amongst its four walls is a place where stories and voices transpire. Characters walking around trying to locate their roles. Sentences floating around waiting for their inscriptions. This place is in chaos. This placed is in rage.
And I can sense that the descriptions are blamed on my irresponsibility to manage them passionately. The root word of the last has corroded into something less of how it should be. The gift is now undeserving of me. For I have been high with arrogance. For I have been clouded with contentment. For I have been forgetful of their existence.
Now I am afraid of them. Afraid to stroke them with my cold writing. Afraid to look at them with my impassive eyes. We have grown maddeningly apart and it hurts like hell. They are vagrants desiring to leave the place they have once helped built. And I am the tyrant taking advantage of the harvests I have no right to claim mine.
I have so many pending apologies to give. To Him. To Them. and to myself. I have been ignorant of many things. Overlooking the gifts bestowed by the Higher Being. That is why I am currently castigated by Them. So, I could see myself small of everything. So, I could swallow the blindness and vomit the sight. So, I could embrace mistakes and let go of the right deeds like doves in my hands.
But why would they want to go? Where would they go? Who will take care of them? My room is their shelter and only ground. No one can take care of them more than what my imagination can give. They would be lost. They would run scavenging for music. And that music would not play anywhere else. It only plays in their native place. Full length. Never ending.
I'm almost done with this piece. I'm really not sure how this will sound to anyone reading. But who cares, it makes perfect sense to me. As I finish this last paragraph, Their whereabouts is gradually arriving in the depths of my looking pupils. They are here. They are still here. and they would not leave me as long as I have my room hidden.
