I live in an optimistic room. A facade of shaped mirrors. A shell that lingers, marked with scarred runes. A hell where a demon lies dreaming in his tomb. Ambling about an amiss womb of ignorance my nature is twisted. I resisted a restless pessimist who has insisted I entered into a house of horrors! Where hubris is heavenly and pain is pleasure. Guilt is a given and treachery means treasure.
My sins surround me. Too slothful to even pluck the fruit my gluttonous hunger devours an empty hand. In this way, pride and lust also follow suit. My avarice is of envious repute, but of the things I envy I cannot refute.
One last forgotten folly.
An abandoned demand. A deep, abysmal pit is the seat of my soul. Fiery wrath now frigid. Instead of a furnace an empty hole.
A chair in the corner sits huddled with the shadows, while a second chair lowers itself by the door. A window between the chairs hangs silently on wall, as the curtains whisper with the wind outside.
Towards the left of the window is a shrunken bed, with bedposts like redwoods and the body of a willow. On the bed is a bundle of fabrics and tweed, twisting and spinning amongst eachother.
Joining the first chair is a spindly wooden table, with wobbly fingers and with only three legs. The top of the table is clustered with trinkets, pinecones from Alaska and feathers from Pompeii.
Littering the floor are denims and glass, clothing and pieces of vases strewn under the door. Thrown under the second chair is a pair of old shoes, weathered and worn and left to die.
On the walls with the window is doodles and sheets, drawings of childhood tapped in the space. Paintings on the plaster are dusted with flakes, burdens of memories of past and future.
In the center of the room stands a coat stand of mahogany, standing tall and strong in the ruins of its lost kingdom. Unaware of what goes on outside of his window, all he knows is the dust and objects trapped with him in the room.