A room where nothing happens doesn’t exist. The minute execution of dust particulate drifting, smashing, and floating for the sun to shine on their delicate dead dance, continues a symphonic drift.
The slow rise and fall of a body in repose, covered in its own topographical history of stretch marks, zits and pustules, aches and pains; its own beautiful scarring suggesting an eternity of live experience exists in perpetual motion. Happiness and sorrow and trillions of momentary firings constant.
Stillness marred by the whirr of a croup cough air conditioner as it churns out coolness, tendrils of cold struggling to hit the far end of the off-white across the room.
The books mostly skimmed, a skyline of uneven unread texts, each inviting a transverse exploration of a universe composed of text. The Rolling Stones an aggressor against the zen-airwaves, perpetually fighting with the conditioner for dominance.
Light filters in from the outside shining bright as the sun reaches a zenith and super-heats the earth with its love. Rays marred and cut and changed into a painting on the wall, as a marred tired body rises and falls.
Beetles from the outside heat march across the sill, picking at the hole in the fabric and dream of their wondrous meditations about nothing and everything, bugs being the true buddhas of the animal kingdom.
Electricity flowing, lights blinking, notifications whirring. The outside world constantly intrudes upon the peaceful unstillness of a bedroom. The currents of life resist our best efforts to close them out.
A room where nothing happens doesn’t exist. But tell that to the person inside stuck, feeling imprisoned anyway.