room in my heart, room without a trace

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sky is grey. It blends against the trees in the distance, wraps around the earth like a woolly coat or jumper. 

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I pull my blanket tighter over my shoulders. It’s soft. Warm. A stark contrast to my insides, that are cold, cold, cold. A stark contrast to the outside, that is cold, cold, cold. The wind gusts, breezing through the leaves. My guts swirl, eating me up from within. 

I’ve always loved my house. The rooms aren’t big, all cozy and filled to the brim, and the garden is a quaint thing, too. All is squished together. All but one. The garden room, a glass-walled extension at the back of the building. Unlike the other parts of the house, it’s almost empty, safe for one two-person sofa and table. A perfect picture of tranquility. 

Right now, though, as I stand and watch the autumn storm rage outside, it’s everything but the usual calmness. 

I don’t know if I feel better or worse for it.

I don’t know if I feel anything at all. 

My phone rings. The sound blends with the rustling from the leaves. It’s almost a song, a symphony formed by a void of sound filling what already can be heard. I close my eyes. In the darkness, I feel like I am in the sea. The waves crash, pooling around me, pulling me under but also pushing me up. I sway; left, right, left, right. The phone keeps ringing. The rain keeps dripping. I keep swaying. 

--

Snow has fallen onto the roof. From underneath the glass, it almost feels like the snow has fallen onto me, that I am lying on a mountain under the wrecks of an avalanche. 

And just like being trapped, I now, too, find it hard to breathe. 

While the outside is still cold, I am not not. Instead, I am fire, I am a blaze, I am coal that has fallen from the fire and hit the carpet. 

I think I may have been sad, once. But now I am angry. Everything, makes me so angry. Where my insides were frozen, they are now ash. 

Last night when I was sleeping, I dreamt of red. I don’t know what else happened. I can’t remember. But it should’ve been scary. I should’ve been scared. And I wasn't. 

Last week, I broke a glass on the floor. Either it fell, or I threw it. 

Last Monday, I slammed the door. There was no one here to hear it. It didn’t even feel good to do.

And today, I lie on the floor in my garden room. I watch the snow on the roof. It’s still and pale and unspoiled. I loathe it. Something within me makes me want to scream and shout and run, run, run. I want to destroy it, destroy the cleanliness, destroy the purity, destroy everything that I am not. 

Yet, I just lie here. 

The tiles underneath my back are hard, and I want to place my hands under my spine to support it. 

Yet, I don’t. 

I lie here. 

I watch the snow. 

I burn. 

--

The flowers are coming out. Little pansies and daffodils paint the green with pink and yellow, forming a blend of faintly-dimmed colour. It falls together nicely. A part of me wants to hate it, wants to hate how the flowers seem to glow, how the birds are chirping, how everything seems so… light. 

Just, light. 

From the sun reflecting against the window to the breeze in the sky. 

I feel like I'm floating; hanging in the air, suspended above everything on earth. The sofa underneath me isn’t in the garden room anymore, but in the clouds. It’s far, far, far away. 

The feeling washes over me, curling through my hair and over my skin and down my back. A bath that soothes my aching limbs. A massage that loosens every knot, every twist, every turn. 

Something inside of me uncurls; with it comes a feeling of emptiness. It’s a bit sad. A bit lonely. Wistful, nostalgic. But not painful. I wonder what it would be like, to be a part of the scenery. As a flower, a grain of sand, a butterfly. What would it be like, to be a part of something so beautiful? To be so small, but so significant. The very thought draws me in; I can’t tear my eyes away. 

When I was younger, my parents and I would sometimes go to the beach. While I ran and played and swam in the sea, they would sit. They would sit and watch: the sun, the waves, me. I often wondered how they could do nothing for hours and hours on end. 

I think that now, I understand. They were never just doing nothing. If anything, they were doing more than anyone else. 

So I sit on the sofa, and I soak in the view. 

It feels like it’s pulling me together. 

Like a soft blanket, in an autumn storm. 

--

When I walked down the stairs this morning, the heat hit me immediately. I opened the windows in the living room, basking in the already present rays of sun. It was early, just past 9 am, but the world felt as full of life as it could be. 

I leaned out of the window and felt the soft wind blow gently against my cheek. It was pleasant, it still is, but by the afternoon the warmth will be unbearable.

After pulling my head back inside, I made my way to the kitchen, opening different windows as I went by to get some coolness into the house. On my way, I passed an open door. The door lead to the garden room. 

And now, when I peak inside, I see nothing there but the sofa and the table. 

I shut the door. 

I carry on to the kitchen. 

--

The leaves are wilting, the temperature dropping. Without a shadow of a doubt, I can say that autumn has arrived.  

I throw on my wind coat, and make my way to the door of the garden room. 

I don’t stay. Instead, I make my way into the garden. 

Into the garden, to finally breathe again.