Rooms in the Sky

Sometimes he gets caught up in his own interiority; all by himself, lost in that constantly rushing sea of quiet thoughts and contemplations. As if the world is just his small apartment, that burnt out light above the kitchen sink, the stained and empty mug on the table, and him sitting silently on the couch.

The sun sets earlier now, and quicker. He watches the orange light passing through the balcony windows and into the room, casting playful, friendly shadows over every surface. He remembers the sound of his friend’s voice as they spoke on the phone once at this exact time of day. Or no, at this exact moment of sunset, when things are gentle and eternal, and it feels like you should be taking slower breaths.

Moments later, the orange glow has gone, but it isn’t dark exactly. Everything just seems a little pale. He knows that in a few minutes it will be dark enough for him stand up and flick on a light, so he carries the dirty mug to the kitchen sink, gives it a quick wash and turns the light on a little early. He sits back on the couch and wonders what he should do with his time.

He kind of wishes his friend would call now. He’s been a little lonely recently, a little trapped in his own head. He thinks he should try writing more, but the idea of it is daunting. He’s not quite sure he has anything to say, even though he thinks about so many things all the time.

Right now, he thinks about stagnation and the feeling that he’s somehow not doing enough, even though sometimes it feels like there’s nothing more to do. This confuses him because the world is so large and so inviting, so full of choices every which way. But he can’t think beyond that quiet room, into the next day or the day after that. The possibilities somehow scare him, and the act of reaching seems exhausting and futile. Better to sit still there, in that safe space, where things are known and familiar; where he can pass day after day in a hum and a blur and find it to be perfectly fine as long as he pays attention to the little things.

But recently, more and more, he feels that it’s not enough. It’s an oppressive kind of restlessness and though there are moments when he can shake it off – when he can tell himself that he’s being silly and that he’s perfectly content – there are also moments when he can’t. It’s as if some dam has broken and the water is slowly rising and he’s only just managing to keep his head above it with an uncertain smile on his face, trying to pretend he’s not about to drown.

He tells himself he’s fine, but the word doesn’t hold any sense of comfort anymore. It doesn’t hold the promise that he needs. The room gets smaller and smaller, encroaching day after day, but the thought of leaving makes him unbearably tired. This is the way they trap you. The choices are always there, but he buckles under their weight. To stay would be light and effortless and easy – but that choice too holds its own consequence, and he’s not sure if he can bear to face it.

He looks out the window now and is startled by how dark it’s gotten. He sees skyscrapers rising in the distance, all the blinking lights of the city he’s called home for so long. All those lights that have given him so much comfort over the years, reminding him that the world exists beyond his quiet room. He stares at all those pockets of light rising into the endless sky, and he thinks of all the people living entirely other lives that he will never know.

. . . . .

Perhaps there is a couple up there, in one of those rooms in the sky, having a quiet dinner and leaving so many vital things unsaid as so many couples do. A man and woman, barely able to look at each other, keeping their own secrets over plates of spaghetti and glasses of red wine. Perhaps tonight, this tension – this mess of furtive, wavering glances – is unbearable and the woman finds she can’t do anything to escape it but throw her plate – in one sudden, desperate motion – onto the floor.

Perhaps it shatters and that loud noise wakes them both up to the reality of things, and then there is crying and screaming, and harsh words hurled carelessly across the finely laid table, shifting the story of their lives completely.

And perhaps she finds in herself a fire she thought long ago extinguished, and gathers enough strength to make that heavy choice. She packs a few things into a small suitcase, grabs her coat and walks out the door, leaving that simmering man to finish his dinner and pick pieces of broken glass off the floor on his own.

She leaves that ancient room in the sky and steps down into a newly unfamiliar world. She has no idea where she’ll go, but the night stretches out before her and she realizes she’s not afraid. She smiles, knowing that although the road ahead might be entirely uncertain, it still leads away from all the little deaths she would have suffered had she stayed. Somehow, this newfound clarity is enough to sustain her and that heavy choice becomes her precarious freedom. She gathers her will, wraps her coat a little tighter, and steps out into the promise of the beckoning night, forever leaving that room in the sky behind. And though she feels some small sense of guilt – some feeling that she might be abandoning something worth fighting for – she never once looks back.