I am surrounded. Four walls. A ceiling. A floor. The floor is carpeted, holding my secrets between the worn threads of its quiet yellow wool. The ceiling is low, capturing the shadows of my lamp, my keyboard in the corner, stained with the dreams that drift out of my head and onto its surface at night. The walls are plain, changing my sense of space as they come closer, move away, breathing in and breathing out. There is one window. It is small and it is senseless, facing the open windows of noisy neighbors, the dirty siding of a building that is just. too. close. The sun does not bother with this window, ignoring its unlit contents, lacking the curiosity to explore its dark depths.
My room is cast in shadow; and I am sleeping in the corner, underneath dirty sheets.