Portrait of a Room
Emma Irene
What to say of a room abandoned in its never-ending occupation? I had a persistent fear of the bathroom, which was cushioned by a hallway, which passed the lounge and building’s entrance. I had not brushed my teeth all weekend. The building’s height weighed upon my sleep, and outside beyond the room’s window bars, the 5am workers paved their way through the brisk cold. The men talked. This was a few years ago now, but still I can place myself in the room as if it was a wretched family member.
In the early mornings, on weekends, I continued managing to make my way beyond the gates adjacent to my dorm, past the dining rooms, to a side entrance. I wore a tie and polished black shoes. In the snow my shoes shone against the greyish sleet in the bright light of the city which extended itself artificially into the night.
My roommate left, and the room became entirely my own. I pushed the beds together to form a pseudo queen, though I continued to sleep on one side. I hung from the ceilings warm string lights to use rather than the suffocating LED lights the room offered. A lamp soiled the room from my dresser with an orangish-pink, illuminating my madness through the long wintered nights.
I rarely went to the dining room on my own, and so I depended upon the vending machines next to it for food. For weeks, my diet consisted almost entirely of Cheez-Its, peanut M&M’s, sour gummy worms, and Acai Vitamin Water, unless I was drunk enough to brave the halls. I grew increasingly pale.
I could not stand being viewed by others as I could not afford to attend to my appearance. And yet all I did was attend to it. I would spend the length of a class staring into my mirror. My skin had broken out in clustered constellations across my face. I had gained weight sheltering in the room.
My room, even in its most precious moments, seemed too big to truly comfort me in the ways in which good rooms do. I was left to wade in it. I longed to be swaddled. But the room was un-crowdable and my mind could not contain what crowded it. It harbored my pacing body.
My room, even in its most precious moments, seemed too big to truly comfort me in the ways in which good rooms do.
On the most strenuous of nights I went for long walks. I stretched my legs as quickly as I could, the scales of their movement as interwoven as Coltrane’s. On the darkest days, I’ll admit, I imagined the almighty presence of a male God in order to abscond me from guilt. In the shower, his voice battled my guilt’s fondest conspiracies. He failed in battle. Still, I imagined the impact my body would make against waves of concrete. The impact my body’s absence would make in the world. I had been, from the perspective of the belly of the room, spoiled in age.
The mysterious ways in which the rooms where I have rested my head haunt. Some I will never return to, this being one of them. And yet, at one time, it was both the place I left and returned to. Once I slept in the kitchen/lounge to avoid this attachment. Some nights I felt as if life could extend forever, and always had, in every direction from this room. I felt my suffering to be just as eternal. But suffering, like everything, is subject to change.
Once the season transformed to spring, the cool nights hosted birds, cars, and laughter, only some of which was joyful. Most of it was bred of drunkenness and sour. I listened from the room, which on the first level of the building was in the melodies of springs' direct presence. Less and less occasionally were the days dusted with snow and struck by sleet, but the trees remained barren amidst the canyons of buildings. At the time I felt as alone beside my companions as I did navigating these formations, born of the dreams of men and their endless corridors. But with time came summer, and with it the warmth of the sun. From my ceiling, plummet happy plants.
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