They are Screaming

My room has become a blank page. Yet it is filled with many different words. Pictures, desk, pen, charcoal, sketch pad, disposeable camera, alarm clock, chips, apples, thank you cards, wardrobe, post it notes, two yoga mats, laundry basket, two mirrors, fifteen boxes of tea, Poland Spring water bottles, white board with a dried up marker, phone, a collection of books on my windowsill, easel; acrylic, water color and oil paints; refridgerator, microwave, bed, a computer, two desk lamps. Words that fill the space that appears blank to my eyes. I do not see these words due to the comfort established through dwelling daily in their midst. This world – alive – now muted due to passive living.  

I no longer hear these words that once spoke. I can find my pop corn when I want to watch a movie, I can locate my sketch pad when I have an idea, I can pull out a book when I have time to read; but I hold the flashlight that shines on the items I need. Darkness falls in the corners of neglect. My desire brings these words out of the dark page into which they are pressed. No longer do these words sing, or scream, or play or bother; they noiselessly sit and consequently fade out of my sight. I am struck not by any tune beyond my set playlist. My comfort produces blindness.

There are many rooms in my life; the streets I walk on, the doors I open, the buildings I walk in to, the path from my bed to the toilet. There are many words within these rooms; the desk drawer I reach in to, the window I daily gaze out, the pain brush on my notebook. These words are intrinsically created with a voice, and side by side they speak and sing and beat against our ears if we let them. They scream, they hurt, they praise, they grunt – they want you to listen.

My room, my life has become silent; a space where comfort has calloused my eyes and ears to remain unaffected by a simple tune.  The birch tree I walk past each day to class, I do not greet in wonder at its changed branches. The raining sky I shield myself from with my North Face hoodie, I do not dwell in awe at its provisional flood. The words want to sing to me, but I cannot hear their song through my passive eyes and calloused skin.

I have neglected the truth that the rooms of my life are created, beautiful and heart wrenchingly inspirational. Comfort is the lens I have allowed to rob me from experiencing the simple symphony, making this world mundane.