This is the room.

Home

I would abandon my memory. My future & assets.

I can strip myself of all thought & become blank again, not a single goal more important than this room.

When I get to the room, I'd locked the door & seal it shut. & Throw the key out the door before closing it. I don't ask questions, I got what I wanted.

When the passage of time begins in my body again, I'll cut open my body to my room. My room is not embedded & content with just my new life there. It bonds my existence to its own. Therefore I will become one with the walls and floor and ceiling. It will live as long as it wants.

My home keeps me entertained, with everything I could ever possibly want. My home & I share everything, & nothing ever breaks. My home has everything & we never have to separate to bring in something new.

I touch every inch of my home, as to memorize it. I smell the wooden air, the air that has been in here since I closed the door. I taste the tears and lick the blood off my bruised hands. I hear nightmares, even when my Sun watches me.

I can see outside.

  I write & read to the room. The room always has enough space & never has never to read.
Whenever I cant give what it wants, the sun drys up my tears. I sit by the windows and write about what lies outside. The room doesn't care for it, & I am always met with the sun fixing up my tear stained cheeks.

The rooms wooden & motionless air hasn't changed since I got here. I can tell. The room will never reply. But I have felt every feeling, & thought every thought. And the air hasn't flinched.

Day by day, month by month, year by year, decade by decade, century by century. & I will part. So I sleep in my coffin & wait for they day and the room never changes. No matter how many books I write.

No matter how many things i feel in the room. I have become storms & my room never floods. I have dug my nails into the room itself as a sandstorm & torn every little thing, but the room always puts everything back. I have tried holding back cyclones, my efforts never mattered, the windows never even creaked.

This room is my death. I never saw the stars change.
I never felt the rain pouring on the permanent bruising of my skin.
I never tasted the garden growing outside the window pane.
I never heard the chirping of birds in the dawn of every spring.

And I never heard the Sun pleading with me to stay with them.