Posted: Wed Mar 26, 2008 9:05 am
Please bear with me on this one...I write all the time, but I never let anyone read what I wrote. And after writing this, I thought somebody might relate so I thought I'd post it. Sorry it's so long. Thank you!
The Room
There is a room in my house that I keep locked.
It’s been locked up tight for so many years,
I’m not sure if I remember what is in there.
I used to live there…when I was little.
Everything in there was familiar and beautiful and mine.
I could breathe and smile. I could play and dream and I was safe.
But then time happened. And clouds.
And I didn’t go in the room as much, although I wanted to.
I craved the minutes spent back in my room.
Even though my dreams changed, the room seemed to change with them.
And everything was still familiar and beautiful and mine.
And then more time passed.
And more responsibilities.
And different priorities came and went.
And I didn’t seem to have the time to go in the room some days, or even some weeks.
And weeks turned to months…
Once in awhile I would peek in.
Occasionally venture in for a minute or two.
Sometimes I even tried to share the room with someone else,
but that never seemed to work for long.
Because they tried to make it their room
or make me change things that I couldn’t change.
I didn’t create my room;
I just lived there and enjoyed it.
Sometimes they told me that things in the room weren’t as I saw them…
Or didn’t exist.
And that would make me sad.
And I would be afraid to go back in there to see if they were right or not.
If they were…it would hurt too much.
The room had never lied to me…
But once I learned what lies were I was afraid of them…
And afraid of the possibility of them as well.
Months became years.
Sometimes I even forgot the room was there for awhile.
I listened to the silence and I listened to the words
that told me that the room was not a good place to be…
That it really wasn’t mine…that it was different than I remembered…
Or maybe that it didn’t exist after all.
I locked the door after that.
Sometimes I still peeked in the keyhole,
but only when I was alone…
Or at night.
One day it seemed too painful to even glimpse into the room
And the light coming through the keyhole hurt my heart.
So I pushed every heavy thing I could in front of the door.
I forgot about the room almost entirely after that.
My days were not bad, but something always seemed to be missing.
Sometimes I would see light playing on shadows and almost remember…
But then I’d put the thought away.
I was afraid of it.
I couldn’t understand it.
I didn’t want to see it and it was too much effort to figure it all out again.
I’m still afraid,
but I saw those heavy things blocking my room the other day.
How could I have missed them all this time?
How could I have not noticed that they were there?
How could I have forgotten?
And then I pushed them.
Tentatively at first,
Then harder until I could just barely see the light streaming through the keyhole.
It surprised me that the light was still there and still bright.
I haven’t opened the door yet.
I don’t know if I’m ready for that,
but it’s comforting to know that my room is still there.
It’s familiar and it’s beautiful and it’s mine.
And one day I’ll touch the door knob.
And one day I’ll turn it.
And one day I’ll visit.
And one day I’ll live there again.
Maybe I’ll even get really brave and invite someone else in to visit,
but not yet.
For right now it’s just enough to see the light and know that my room is there…
waiting for me.
The Room
There is a room in my house that I keep locked.
It’s been locked up tight for so many years,
I’m not sure if I remember what is in there.
I used to live there…when I was little.
Everything in there was familiar and beautiful and mine.
I could breathe and smile. I could play and dream and I was safe.
But then time happened. And clouds.
And I didn’t go in the room as much, although I wanted to.
I craved the minutes spent back in my room.
Even though my dreams changed, the room seemed to change with them.
And everything was still familiar and beautiful and mine.
And then more time passed.
And more responsibilities.
And different priorities came and went.
And I didn’t seem to have the time to go in the room some days, or even some weeks.
And weeks turned to months…
Once in awhile I would peek in.
Occasionally venture in for a minute or two.
Sometimes I even tried to share the room with someone else,
but that never seemed to work for long.
Because they tried to make it their room
or make me change things that I couldn’t change.
I didn’t create my room;
I just lived there and enjoyed it.
Sometimes they told me that things in the room weren’t as I saw them…
Or didn’t exist.
And that would make me sad.
And I would be afraid to go back in there to see if they were right or not.
If they were…it would hurt too much.
The room had never lied to me…
But once I learned what lies were I was afraid of them…
And afraid of the possibility of them as well.
Months became years.
Sometimes I even forgot the room was there for awhile.
I listened to the silence and I listened to the words
that told me that the room was not a good place to be…
That it really wasn’t mine…that it was different than I remembered…
Or maybe that it didn’t exist after all.
I locked the door after that.
Sometimes I still peeked in the keyhole,
but only when I was alone…
Or at night.
One day it seemed too painful to even glimpse into the room
And the light coming through the keyhole hurt my heart.
So I pushed every heavy thing I could in front of the door.
I forgot about the room almost entirely after that.
My days were not bad, but something always seemed to be missing.
Sometimes I would see light playing on shadows and almost remember…
But then I’d put the thought away.
I was afraid of it.
I couldn’t understand it.
I didn’t want to see it and it was too much effort to figure it all out again.
I’m still afraid,
but I saw those heavy things blocking my room the other day.
How could I have missed them all this time?
How could I have not noticed that they were there?
How could I have forgotten?
And then I pushed them.
Tentatively at first,
Then harder until I could just barely see the light streaming through the keyhole.
It surprised me that the light was still there and still bright.
I haven’t opened the door yet.
I don’t know if I’m ready for that,
but it’s comforting to know that my room is still there.
It’s familiar and it’s beautiful and it’s mine.
And one day I’ll touch the door knob.
And one day I’ll turn it.
And one day I’ll visit.
And one day I’ll live there again.
Maybe I’ll even get really brave and invite someone else in to visit,
but not yet.
For right now it’s just enough to see the light and know that my room is there…
waiting for me.