I woke up this morning with a sudden desire to write. Holding my magical pen and notebook, I sat up on my bed and looked around my room to search for just anything that I could write a poetry or prose about, darting my gaze from left to right, up and down, end to end. But I only found tiny cracks on the wall that resembled a varicose vein; a spider expanding its kingdom of web in the spaces between my books in the shelf; shoes clattered on the floor, along with some papers that I guessed were drafts of some stories I got tired of writing; clothes that I wore last night hanging awkwardly on the rack; cobwebs laced around the flourscent lamp; a wallpaper that was threatening to tear itself off the wall; and dust— everywhere— on every surface, and in the open air hanging around me.
I got up and took a piece of clean unused cloth and began cleaning— sponging and scrubbing off the dust in every space in my room that had accumulated over the months, years. I dusted off the shelf, the windows, walls, ceiling and floors. I put every object back into their places— the shoes, papers, clothes, wallpapers, and books.
I slumped myself wearily on the chair and marveled what had I done to my room. I sniffed the air around me and it smelled clean, new. I smiled, but it was ephemeral, for there on the air, and in every spaces around me, still lives the memories. I don’t want those memories to make my room their home. They make me remember the choice that I should have chosen. They make me wonder if my life would have been the same, had I been brave enough to choose it. They fill me with remorse and regret.
Someday, I know… one day, I would leave and live somewhere. But right now, I have to content myself with this sadness I have for a room.