This room is full of cling and clatter. Random objects are tangled on strings suspended across the ceiling; the dim light hangs in the centre, its weight supported only by the feeble wire, and it flickers weakly, but desperately, as if it were determined to shed light in its neglected territory.
All across the grimy carpet lay old newspapers, dated from up to years back, and the only recent one being ten days ago, all ripped up and torn, and finally lying limply in a messy heap on the floor. In another corner lays another large pile; unsorted, unlikely objects, all with a thick blanket of dust neatly resting atop each piece that stuck out, organised tastefully into a unique, utterly incomprehensible form. These objects are remarkably similar, and as each object is recognised, a little story seems to flow from within each one... Stories that ring a bell, and invoke reflection and reminisce.
The cupboards, desks, chairs, everything is filled, even overflowing, so that nothing can be closed; the room were as if it were a strangely deliberate display of an array of books thrown in every possible direction, with leafs carefully laid out dangerously close to the edge of a desk or shelf that it may fall if anyone touched it, and covers left wide open with nothing in between. Even the furniture seems antique: they have collected a thick, warm layer of dust over themselves, and their varnish is long gone, leaving unwanted, dull finishes, like the murky, dirty waters many would dare not even touch.
It seems that all life has been sucked out of this room; that is, all but a tiny little plant, sitting by its lonesome self beside a row of withered pot-plants, behind old, patched curtains that stole the room of any natural light. It puffs its own little chest as large as it can, although it is choked by the thick, dusty air. As much as it may have tried, gilings settled atop its little arms and intertwined with the tiny spikes over its body. Still, the cactus lived, and stood on the sooty window sill, soaking in the sun as it breached the clouded windows, permeating throughout the cactus' body, and in turn strengthening it to live on. The mini-cactus seems to know that the sun would still rise again to give light to it, even if all surrounding it had died so long ago.
And so I stood up, cupping the brave little cactus carefully in both hands, and left the room with a soft creak, followed by a muffled thump, before departing from the forgotten room. There, I left its memories, and miscellaneous objects undisturbed, aside from a stir of dust particles, floating dreamily in the air once again. ---
I feel delight. This piece, although seemingly dreary and probably boring to everyone else, is like the sun softly caressing my cheek, and its lovely warmth tickling my lips.
The room itself is strongly metaphoric, perhaps, of myself, or my thoughts: cluttered, messy, and full of memories and past memoirs played over again from a vinyl record over an age old gramophone.
These objects themselves remain untouched, for I can't take them with me, but even laying eyes on them stirs the music inside me, and sometimes I well up with tears in pensive reminisce.
But I know to let go.
I know I can't hold onto everything, for everything has its moment, its time, and its place. I would never forget it...but if I were to bring anything of the past with me, I'd bring the belief that even if everything else was now useless, and withered, and old, the sun would still rise for me, to strengthen me, and fill me with hope again.
LOL, Sarah.
I don't feel pretty.
