I walk into this room. It's supposed to be mine. I've been told that everything that is me, is in here. I am in here, on the walls. On the desk. In the pictures.
A few steps in, I notice the walls are so drab. Not all grey, and not quite green, or blue. There was not much light flowing through the air.
There are lamps, here and there. All lit, glowing brightly, but their light does not travel. It barely goes beyond the shades that cover them lightly. The room is still dark, and hidden. The shadows in the corners don't grow, because they're already laying across all that they shouldn't touch. And I hear the music. Voices, like a choir. A very quiet choir. A choir, as though from a church long forgotten, and dead. Lonesome.
Is this my room? Did I make all this? This is the room of a dead person. This bed, will not be slept in anymore. These windows, will share no light of day. And these pictures, the faces are all gone.
Where am I, if this room is really me? If it is what I made of my life? Is this all that is left?
What room are you in? What room are you being led to? Look around, and see where you have made your life. See what you leave behind. Don't leave the drab colors, or empty pictures with empty faces. And don't leave behind the sad music, of choirs from dead churches.
