This Room (2/27/21)

This Room

2/27/2021
Devan Forester

I have always loved this room. It has the charm of an antique, especially when the walls are lined with porcelain trinkets. Everything has its own special past. When the china collides with the floor, the world has lost something that it never fully appreciated. Or maybe I'm just odd for thinking an object I don't understand is so sentimental. I want to know its secrets, but do I dare ask? Maybe some things are better left unknown.
Speaking of the unknown, I wonder what's beyond that door. That white, wooden door is my entrance, but it can be my exit as well. It depends on where you stand, so which is it now? An exit out of this room or an entrance into the outside? I have never been good with philosophy. Perhaps I should ask someone else another time.
The time, yes, the time. It is a quarter 'till one. At least, that's what my clock says. My clock is a pretty little thing. It has a dark lining and a weathered-looking white interior. Its hands are brittle with fanned ends. They go nicely with my clock's Roman numerals. Well, that same clock gets stuck every Tuesday, so I guess it isn't really mine. If it was mine, I should be able to control it, right? That's what I think.
Think, think, think. I love thinking. My inner thoughts entertain me just like another person. It's like I'm speaking to someone that isn't really there. I'm doing it right now, aren't I? Explaining this whole room to someone that doesn't exist, I mean. Nobody can hear me, but that's alright. Nobody hears lots of things, for example; nobody heard me making multiple cups of tea earlier. Apart from myself, no one should have heard the cups clink or the teapot scream.
Why did I make two cups of tea? I'm here alone. I'm nearly finished with my cup, but the other one is getting cold. The other cup is sitting right across from me, but there's just an empty chair. Someone should be having that tea, so why didn't they come? It's not their fault. I didn't invite them, after all. They should have known, but I never told them. I'm the one to blame for their absence, but it still hurts. It's alright. Instead of talking to them directly, I'll just think of what I could have said. I'll keep talking to someone that isn't there.
Are you cold? The window is open, but I can't see outside. I feel the breeze, but I can't picture where it's coming from. It's just a harsh light. While it doesn't hurt my eyes, it's too bright to see the outside. It's not my outside because I can't make it show itself. That's okay, my room is good enough for me.
Until it's not. I wonder if they would like this room. Would they like the antiques lining the walls? Or perhaps they'd like the door that is both an entrance and an exit? Maybe they'd like the clock on the wall or the thoughts I have to share. They might even enjoy the tea I made, although it's rather cold by now.
Well, I can wonder as much as I'd like, but there is one thing that keeps coming back. Every turn I take, every path I try, I can't help but realize. It doesn't matter though. Maybe I just feel this way because I want attention. Ah, I'm so selfish. I really need to learn to keep things to myself. Even so, I still can't deny the greater truth.
I don't remember how I got here, but how do I begin to reach out?