Wrong room

frost_on_the_window734

Frost on the Window by Robert Strong Woodward

In front of her was a door, and like most doors, this one also required her to enter. There was nothing necessarily dangerous on the other side — only people, but she didn’t find any comfort even in that thought.

When she entered, her eyes settled on the empty spaces and on the corners of the room seen from her point of view. She craved to settle in on one of the cracks between the spaces and just blend in. In those cracks, she could be herself, even when inside a large room full of strangers.

But where does she go? How does her feet begin to walk towards those cracks?

Well, she had to endure five minutes. Five minutes of searching the crowd. Five minutes of vacancy and sweaty palms. Five minutes of faltered smiles and clumsy tiptoes. Five minutes of not knowing what to do.

Knowing that she could not stand by the doorway for too long, she began to walk towards one of the spaces. However, she stopped herself short at the sight of a window on the far left.

She loved windows. Windows have offered a world of excitement and imagination to her ever since she knew windows existed. They opened and allowed warm wind to caress her. They empowered her to daydream at night and sleep during day.

There came a time when she had a season for windows. It was the season when she felt as if there were always waves crashing against her feet. It was a season where she had a place to be in. And given any opportunity, she always wanted to recreate those moments.

With newfound motivation and certainty, she changed gears – from empty spaces to familiar windows. Her five minutes were now reduced to two. She still had to pass by the crowd but her eyes were set. It was getting better.

At the last minute, she felt the dark seep in through the frames of the window. The air that came with it was cold and unforgiving. Even before she could reach her intended destination, the spot where she hoped she could lose herself in was becoming lost.

Snow came pouring in, covering the window panes and glass and she stared, helplessly, as the window vanished before her eyes.

She was in the middle of the room now. Her feet were pointing towards something non-existent. Eyes were on her. They knew where she intended to go.

Willing her already pale skin to change into steel, she took a step back towards the direction she came from and pretended that she was in the wrong room.

 

 

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letting all the bad feelings out through “poetry”

messy_art_by_amalitsa

Artwork from deviant art: amalista

unsavory, like salt,

a scrunchy I left wet, hanging

on the toiletries rack, the

morning couldn’t get any sweeter

with awkward dances an­­d words

I was too sleepy to say, I don’t

have the tolerance for unironed shirts

today. Stay, we kept holding up

hands against the sun, grass and shoes

were about to give up, cold sweat,

unsatisfactorily everything, from half

hearted laughs to always one step apart.

I was pulling but breaths kept

at it until the quiet was quite as desperate

as fried chicken for breakfast. There is the

illusion that forms meant to taste like

cake, chewed on by a thousand dreams I

had for a fifteen-minute nap. It was

just as I thought it’d be with misspellings

and mishaps the saints in my head invented. We

were just as they told me when I prayed not

too long ago to do what the common

folk to with their tongues, for the sheer thrill

of being normal, in the streets there was

shouting instead of constant nods to hats tipped

off. I was no longer awake after more

than a day of crickets and throbbing and

the light showed itself out of my eyes until

I wobbled. My bedroom floor tasted like cement,

now that I think about it.