Bedroom in summer
All summer, she ached for the unfamiliar thrill of longing that accompanied every rebellious thought that ran across the hallways of her mind. Summer was supposed to be the chance for those mindless rambles of long nights and soft lights to escape through her fingertips into the real world. But the passion that flowed out of her like coffee from a pot in the morning ebbed away as the scenes of summer came to an end. That once present vigor of energy died slowly as the caffeine kick of the disappointing summer leaked out of her bloodstream.
Instead she had immersed herself in the ramblings of strangers from movies, falling in love with the warped sighs of tales told from sandy shores of the Riviera, about nights swimming in lakes and picking peaches in the pitch black. She fell in love with prose that seemed to cradle her melancholy and put it to sleep for the night, so that her heavy heart could rest for a short eight hours before having to feel everything all over again the next morning. She watched her summer from the comfort of the four walls that prevented her from leaving her head and living out the scenes from her favourite cinematic art.
The wall in front of her was painted a cherry red which reminded her of Lolita; it taunted the thrill the outside with allusions of innocence. This wall was plastered with musings of rebellion, whispering secrets about the fun other people her age were having at 3am in the morning. At night this wall would radiate an alarming crimson, but not for the intention of allure, but as a warning to stay behind the walls she had built. So she stayed.
In the centre of the wall to her left there was a window that allowed her to see into the world outside; the leaves on trees had lightened as the summer sun seized it’s cells, turning the wheel of seasons into the next cycle. When the sun sank into the mattress of the horizon, the moon would rise for the midnight show on the stage of the stars. It spun pirouettes for those who watched from behind the glass, it’s argent rays painting the wall strokes of silver, leaving a metallic aftertaste on the tip of her tongue.
To the right, the wall was aligned from floor to ceiling with books, like a magnificent jenga tower. A jenga tower and this arrangement of books had a similar mechanical purpose, for if you removed one piece, it’s structure would collapse and you would have to rebuild an entire city from rubble. She built her identity from broken characters trapped within these bricks, characters who dyed their hair red and painted their nails a midnight shade of blue. She created a tapestry of language native only to her, made from threads of quotes she would repeat to herself when no one was looking. It was these same utterances that entranced her to her room, binding her to the very walls that cursed her soul.
The last wall was plain and blank, idly standing by like a dead end that did not have the pleasure of meeting many people. Cracks vandalised the barren space, blossoming from corner to corner, like veins of a once breathing body. This wall was worn out from the ping pong of hushed whispers that escaped the murmuring of her mind, on nights she decided dreams were for those awake. This wall listened, night after night, dark after dark but said nothing in return, for the only way to stop the cracks from greeting each other like angels in the Creation of Adam; were to paint over them like Michelangelo did his visions. So that perhaps her musings would one day be in a museum, where her thoughts are heard and her words seen.
