My nose struggled to breathe the slug which was floating in front of my eyes instead of the air. The silent figures around me breathed it in, all the same, darkening it’s color, thickening it’s texture, bit by bit like a diesel engine working, chugging in circles without a train, leaving a deep dark smoke out on the wide sky. My hands and legs are all clogged, making me unable to move. I sat there, watching, silently as if my punishment in the hell would be to watch the fellow humans suffer, with a mind which struggle to care and a heart which refuse to feel. I sat there. Until a misplaced cloud of water drowned me, for enough time for my gears and legs to run, away! In to my room of isolation, through It’s open window I fly to the starry space, dreading the next day when I have to return to the same muddled air of our living room.
Every part of the house says a thing about that family. The guest room for it’s beautiful vagueness. The terrace, marking the place of meaningless laughters. The bedroom never speak the tales of privacy, both good and bad. The living room, I would say is the heaviest of all. The most awkward place in the house, even more so than the bedroom. So I would like to personally ask everyone who reads this, how’s your living room, wanna tell me? if you do, write a post and link back to this post. I would love to know about about living room which has only seen laughter.
Picture by Rhett Noonan.