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︶ ྀི◟ ͜◞˚̣̣̣ ᪥ ˚̣̣̣◟ ͜◞ ྀི︶
i lie in my bed in my attic bedroom, staring out the window as the rain pours and hits my window like small bullets. i have drawn the blinds over the windows in the roof and am stuck staring at the window on the westward facing wall, watching the sun attempt to spread her rays across the plains through the heavy, gray clouds as she prepares for her slumber. the clouds don't look very happy at the moment, they're probably frustrated with the sun because she stole their spotlight during the day, and they have come to nab it back and settle in before the night comes.
i tilt my head away from the window and stare at the slanted roof i have stared at many a time, and will continue to stare at for many more. i count each wood panel, all 47 of them, and give them each names. bonnie, denver, rex, mylo, caroline, suzi, serene, tyler, ash. each wooden slat has their own individual quality that sets them aside from the others. though i may not remember all their names every time, i remember a few. these are the particularily distinguishable ones. there is a discoloured panel, slightly darker than the others that i have christened with serene. she gives me this sense of calm, any time i look at her i feel at peace with myself and the world around me, everything feels exactly where it should be and my life is in order. there is another discoloured one, this one being slightly lighter than all the others, with slight indentations across its length, kind of like a honeycomb pattern. i've called him hive.
my attic bedroom has been my home for all of my 58 years, and will likely be my home for the next 58 years, so when i turned 10, i decided that for as long as i would be staying in this bedroom, i would stare at that ceiling and think about all the different ways this room was alive. the atoms in the wood that are constantly vibrating and shifting, all tightly packed together like a pack of sardines, are alive in a sense. the oxygen atoms in the air that help me breathe are alive. the smoke from my cigarette is floating and changing and is alive.
for me, being alive meant having the ability to move, or to rot, and everything can rot, so subsequently everything is alive. one day the panels in my roof that i have taken considerable care in naming will rot and give way, leading to the roof collapsing in over my corpse and covering it and my bed in wood chips and debris. then the floor underneath my corpse which lay on top of my bed will rot away and cave in and my body will fall with my bed and the wood chips and debris and land on the ground floor where my bed, which my corpse lay on, will break apart and blend in with the debris from the roof and the floor, all of which will cover my body and shield me from her rays. nature will take its course, and as my body rots the debris that surrounds it shall rot too. i will die in that room, and that room shall die with me. that is the way of things.
my friend sascha would say this fixation i have on staying in this room until i take my final breath is 'abnormal,' and is a serious issue that i need professional help to fix, but some issues disapear by becoming normal. i know what others would think, but i chose to ignore it. my normal is my normal, i wouldn't judge your normal, so you shouldn't judge mine. i find my friend who makes such a fuss about following every single rule of a specific organisation or area odd, but i don't tell them to stop being such a obsequious conformist, i leave them be. my friend finds my chain-smoking-in-bed-at-2PM habit odd, yet they always try to get me stop it. they try to guilt trip me by saying 'you're harming your body' and 'you need to stop before you get cancer' but i don't understand why they care so much about what i do.
sascha has plenty of bad habits that they indulge in on a regular basis, such as getting drunk to the point of comatose on a friday night. but i don't tell them to tone it down on the binge-drinking, because its not any of my business. i don't butt my head into places where it doesn't belong, and disrupt the peace other people have made with themselves and barge into rooms where they have placed their habits in neatly organised shelves and rip said shelves down with a crowbar that i named kindness and demand they change their ways for the 'greater good'. thats just weird. it probably took them a while to find which habits worked to quiet the every-whirling tornado of thoughts that spiral around their brain, who am i to judge them on it?
i tilt my head back to face my window and find myself to be staring at nothing, she has gone to sleep and the night has come in, covering everyone and everything in her blanket of darkness. the night is comforting, she comes in and kisses the sun goodnight, tucks the clouds in, says hello to the moon and starts painting. she paints stars in the sky, putting them in little patterns so us humans can play connect the dots with them, she encourages the moon to shine bright, so we're not left in complete darkness. she's nice. i like the night. the moon however, is a different story.
he's cowardly, he hides away, most of the time he is half of what he should be, and some of the time hes not even there at all. he spends half his time disappearing yet is considered as whole by society. i dislike him. the moon doesn't have a pleasant personality either. he has a big ego, mainly because us as a race has made the moon out be some fantastical, 8th wonder of the fucking galaxy, when in reality, its this spherical, clump of rock that occasionally shields us from meteors, and sometimes he fails at that too.
︶ ྀི◟ ͜◞˚̣̣̣ ᪥ ˚̣̣̣◟ ͜◞ ྀི︶