It always felt cramped, this room. Now it feels almost suffocating. Various odds and ends of your life are washed up here; knickknacks, equipment, paper scraps. You never seem to have the time to clean. The path from the bed to the door is all you've been able to manage. You still trip over something, half the time.
Grey light filters in from the drawn blinds. It is early morning, and everything casts shadows.
Grey light filters in from the drawn blinds. It is early morning, and everything casts shadows.
Blue-stripped walls, the smell of tea. An unkempt professor, comfy chairs, a tall cat and a fat cat. The ticking of an antique clock.
Swooping structures, far above your head. Monuments for the monument builders.
A bunch of random pieces of your life. Nothing of importance (like most things of yours), but you keep them with you regardless.
A simple controller, fairly cheap. An obvious tell of your preferred waste of time.
You're never quite good enough, usually.
Enough practice to be worse than everyone who really invests.
Your heart broke when you saw a glimpse of heaven, and had it ripped from you.
Flying in the dark towards a light, following something quite like you.
Hunted in the dark dirt, it snagged you in its jaws and mocked you as it guzzled your flesh and blood.
A gift for a friend, but you're somewhat attached to it too. A cheap, simple thing of brightly-colored plastic that brightens up the normally dour room.
Bright and flavorful.
The colors crash in your head, swirling in criticism of the grey.
You've been called and sick and weird for carrying this, laughed at. You scowl in memory.
A token reminder that you've got friends out there. Maybe.
The hallway you take back and forth every day, in and out. The patterns on the floor and the string of doors pattern all the way down to both ends. Other than various flyers and papers, nothing ever changes here.
You don't feel up to going anywhere right now.
You don't feel up to going anywhere right now.
Your trusty drafting pencil. You don't go anywhere without it. You feel sometimes that it is a good representation of your character. Professional, a few gaudy trimmings.
Filled with lead.
Filled with lead.
You were proud the day you bought it. It's pristine, professional, sharp. You hoped it'd serve you well, and it hasn't disappointed. You smile, a little, and breathe; pushing doubt from your lungs.
"Black is ten colors."
A beautiful thing, too good at letting out the travesties in your head. You shudder with the acknowledgement.
Your best is never good enough.
You sketch with too many lines. Someone told you once that it showed you lacked confidence.
A small black book, leather covers.
The pages are cream color, with faint grey ruling.
You used to store valuable things here, but it's been awhile since you've written them down.
The pages are cream color, with faint grey ruling.
You used to store valuable things here, but it's been awhile since you've written them down.
Your heart broke when you saw a glimpse of heaven, and had it ripped from you. You opened your eyes.
Flying in the dark towards a light, following something quite like you. You opened your eyes.
True love, a quaint little house, a small family. Paradise. You opened your eyes.
Hunted in the dark dirt, it snagged you in its jaws and mocked you as it guzzled your flesh and blood. You opened your eyes.
Blue-stripped walls, the smell of tea. An unkempt professor, comfy chairs, a tall cat and a fat cat. The ticking of an antique clock. You opened your eyes.
A skyscraper in a city. Standing outside the glass is a person in a hospital gown. You don't know how they're standing there. You opened your eyes.
Swooping structures, far above your head. Monuments for the monument builders. You opened your eyes.
The smell of something cooking, and heat. The humming of a microwave. You opened your eyes.
A tight hallway crawling with squirming shapes. Your ears fill with the sounds of thousands of rustling forms. You feel several legs trace up your shoulder. You opened your eyes.
The smell of something cooking, and heat. The humming of a microwave. You opened your eyes.
A tight hallway crawling with squirming shapes. Your ears fill with the sounds of thousands of rustling forms. You feel several legs trace up your shoulder.
A quarter you came across. It's one of the oldest ones you've found, and you've taken to keeping it around. It's not exactly shiny anymore.
Something about it's age speaks to you.
You wonder about what things were like decades ago. The subtle, everyday things.
The older coins have deeper engravings compared to the modern ones, you think.
Carrying a tiny piece of history.
A cheap, collapsible table; green.
You value its ability to fold up and go anywhere. It's also fairly light and roomy...when it's not covered in things.
You value its ability to fold up and go anywhere. It's also fairly light and roomy...when it's not covered in things.
Supposedly looking at green makes one more creative, you've heard.
You have one just like it back at home. There's no open surfaces there, just decorations for guests.
It's always cluttered with something, it's never clear for a moment until you pile more things on. Familiar.
True love, a quaint little house, a small family. Paradise.
A fairly sizeable window is the only thing that breaks the oppression of the walls.
A skyscraper in a city. Standing outside the glass is a person in a hospital gown. You don't know how they're standing there.
A silver microphone with a built in stand. It's one of your most valuable possessions, and you do your best to take care of it.
Even though you've never used it.
Even though you've never used it.
You found it in a closet back home, untouched and forgotten. Adopted the poor thing.
You've listened to how you sound on the thing, and were surprised. You sound like yourself on it. You never sound like yourself.
You remember how much you hate your voice and idly tap the mute button.
You were told once that you had a strong voice. But an audience silences you, always.
.JPG)
