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.
