The Room in Our Heads

courtesy of  thoosah

Sunlight, warm and bright, streamed through the open window, bathing the small room in gold. It was quiet, no birds sang, no leaves rustled, silence except for the relentless ticking of the bedside alarm clock - a device he both loathed and treasured.

He stood at the doorway of the room, leaning against the frame, hands folded, his eyes taking in - drinking, absorbing, breathing - the peaceful scene and drawing patterns in the air as they fell on random items scattered about the room: the dresser, the many items on the dresser, clothes on the floor, clothes on the bed frame,  clothes on his laptop, the infernal alarm clock, and books, books everywhere, books on the dresser, on the bed, on the table outside on the balcony, even on top of the air-conditioner (what the heck was it doing there?).

Every item with an inadvertent story attached to it: here was a top she had loved, the pile of mixtapes on the computer table (which was violently colonised by other foreign objects like cups, books, an old wallet, with no computer in sight) with significant songs, the book she had thrown at him in a fit (that's why it was on the air-cond!), the overflowing trashcan filled with crumpled paper from his writings.

The walls were filled with photographs: one panel with pictures of random places and scenery, another panel filled with pictures of people and food and art. In a nutshell, that was the difference in the way they both viewed the world - he as a place to explore with breathtaking beauty while she found breathtaking beauty in art, culture and most importantly, people.

The shadows were lengthening, the golden glow in the room was leaving. He stood there still, wondering if he should take anything with him, wondering at all if he should leave anything behind. Wondering if the room in his head held a deeper meaning or if there ever was a meaning. Wondering if there was more room in his head, or if this was it, this was all there is.

He took only an envelope, everything else he left there; there was nothing he could take, and even then, he had taken them with him as best he could. 

So he turned, shutting the door just as the last rays of the sun touched the room and disappeared, plunging him in darkness. He locked the door, dropped the key into the envelope, then slid the envelope back under the door.

And left.

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