The Room

As a child, there was a room at home that I was really scared to go into. My parents, or siblings had to walk in with me for it to be comfortable. And I remember I would clutch my mom’s hand really tightly and remain close. But curiosity always drew me towards it. I’d think, “There is nothing there. Nobody else is scared. Nor should I. So why do I feel uneasy?”

A lot of my feelings, are like that room. I don’t like them, but the sense of foreboding is strangely intoxicating. I know my demons reside there. And the fact that only I can see them, make them very personal and somehow “mine”.

I often visit that room, sometimes it looks different. I try and kid myself into thinking that this is not the same or there is different reason why I’m here today. But the color of light may have changed, still it has the same dusty shelves, the same old toys I’m so familiar with. I take a detour once in a while to visit the sunny balcony. In my heart of hearts though, I know I’m coming back. Maybe this is my equilibrium. Am I destined to keep fighting those demons and never win, or lose? Or is it me who’s keeping them alive, aiding them when they are not well, because they are the ones who actually know who I am?

I look longingly at other people out in the street taking in the fresh air, and basking under the sun, hoping for a bit of sanity. But then I hear some of their stories. Maybe everyone is in their own “room” and are actually carrying it along wherever they go. But everything in it is transparent to all but them. They say, “Everybody has their demons. Don’t judge. You don’t know their story.”

Hmm, some trippy thought I’d say.