Last night I went to that place. That flat place my mind goes to when I see someone living some aspect of a life I think I should be living. It’s a place without movement, a place where I can plop down and feel slighted, cheated, left over like the corners of pie crust dough they didn’t even bother crimping into the edges. How dare they? And also, it figures.
This room is filled with cheap, floppy couches and one window, which looks out on a brick wall. There’s a bag of Doritos but no water. You can hang out here a while, crunching on your thirst, feet up on the coffee table or stretched out on the cushions. No need to take your shoes off. No one else will be coming in. These rooms are single occupancy. They’re a place to go when you don’t want to remember that we are all connected. We are all made of the same parts, each put together a little differently. We can’t be each other, but in a way we already are.
I used to hate this place. Now I try to appreciate the quiet. The air is stale but there’s a good lock on the door. There are no expectations. I can catch my breath and stare at my toes. I just have to make sure to leave before I get too comfortable. This isn’t the sort of place where you want to fall asleep.
So I’m sitting here with my first coffee of the morning, ready to lose myself in a nice, long blog post, and I get only three paragraphs. Figures.
That’s just… GREAT.
I’ve been staring at your picture forever, and I still can’t figure out which one is mostly like the others. That’s a tough one.
Also, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have a room like that. It would be just my luck that it would have a really annoying record on repeat that I couldn’t stop from playing. I’d just go crazy.
Wait, is that a tennis ball? WIN!
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