My nice bedroom

2008-12-24T14:37:00.000-08:00

I like my bedroom. It’s warm, cosy and nicely lit - especially with the subtle tree-leaf lights draped along one side of the wall. My glass desk is sitting in the corner, the canvas cloth wardrobe next to the bed and a decent space in the remainder of the room to house one book shelf, an office chair and numerous paintings hung on the wall.

I like my bedroom. Outside there is a storm. The wind blows so harshly against the window pain that a slight breeze permeates the glass, pushing the blind slightly forward and back from time to time. Not so much, though, as to cause a lowering of air temperature to the point where I would be cold. Would such a thing to happen, the room would no longer be cosy. I don’t think I would allow this.

Like I’ve said, I like my bedroom. But outside, there is a different world. At first it appears black from my window only becoming shades of dark after a few minutes of staring straight at it. There seem to be shapes moving all around but I can’t really tell. They could be dragons; they could be clouds.

The harsh gale winds combined with a seemingly endless quantity of rain make the world beyond my bedroom seem difficult and unwelcoming. Each step costing dearly; each slap of wind and rain leading to one curse after another. Like a stranger amongst unworldly villagers, the elements would grant me no favour or temporary reprieve; no gift of mercy from all that avails me. My body would be beaten and shook to the bone, bloody and battered from nature’s indifferent onslaught. Without pity the skies would open with a crescendo of thunderous rain falling from the heavens like dead weights bombarding the earth below. The soil would not feel these blows as through the ages it has learnt to absorb them well; folly to mankind which has not. My once smooth skin free of blemish and exposure would wince and convulse at each bullet of rain puncturing my skin. Primal winds would barge my hapless body back and forth against parked cars nearby or rough-surfaced walls. Then, of course, the inevitable: a slip on a watery surface leading me to fall to the ground hard, breaking numerous front teeth against the cold hard concrete footpath which I had mistakenly relied upon as an ally.

Grazes; abrasions; disorientation. No thank you; I’d prefer to stay inside- or rather, I never want to go out there. Just then as I stare out into the darkness something moves behind me and I remember everything.

I’m finished if I don’t, aren’t I? Go out there. All the things I love about being in here rather than out there, the warm cosy atmosphere, the snug duvet with the goose down feathers, the comfortable writing position from my glass desk- these things will all kill me soon enough unless I stop them. I can scarcely believe it. There are no signs being given away by the pillows lying at the top of the bed. Equally, neither the glass desk nor the radiator appear to be making a move. In a state of paranoia, I accuse the bookshelf of grand conspiracy and the floor rug of behaving in a manner suggesting ill intent. Both refuse to answer the charge. Maintaining their solidarity, I get an equally indignant response from the desk, the woodchip notice board, the clothes basket and the portable safe -it, I might add, looking very chummy with the bookshelf.

Bastards. All of them.

Faced with confronting them or outside, I suck it up and muster the courage to state my case. Pointing fiercely at the desk, I accuse it of “harboring knowledge that is detrimental to my health and wellbeing”; and what’s furthermore “deliberately acting as co-conspirator with the bookshelf in a plot of sedition”.

Something sniggers; nothing moves.

All of this surprises me a lot really. I remember when they all first moved in, God, I was so happy. We used to spend warm afternoons in the sunlight together, me reading and spending time with the bed, the weights bench hanging out with the clothes basket. After meals we would just go crazy running around the room doing whatever we wanted. I mean fuck it: This was our room. And that wasn’t just limited to what we did, but who we did it with too. If the mood took us, we would move around freely. Time spent with the desk was equal to that spent with the wardrobe or bookshelf. We promised each other early on that we would share and not hold back: experience, free from morality, was a good thing. This made us really close. On special occasions we would all get together and sing around the radiator -lots of songs- from childhoods we mostly forgot. No-one judged us, and we didn’t judge ourselves. We tried to be free.

But being free comes with a price and the bill is given as a surprise. In light of the shock of this I froze and carried on my decisions as per norm. The laughter and dancing in my room continued as normal, but there was a ghost in there now too. A horrible thing with a memory I couldn’t escape. What was once warm and soft now became worn and set. Happy and smiling became second-guessed and serious. All was lost.

My bedroom, then, is no longer warm, nor cosy, nor nicely lit. Old friends have become ancient enemies and old songs sung have hit their last note. The new world then is dead.

room with a view

My nice bedroom