The Grey Room

I am nobody. Life is hollow shell around me. An eggshell with no fluid around a solid embryo. The walls of my room are a prison. My body is listless of the soul that moves it. And yet, here I am.

The grey walls around me aren’t pretty. Cracks in the concrete made long ago, seem to belong there. I fill the spaces of the cracks with toys and clothes so the bitter cold does not reach me, but the heat of my own body is not enough to comfort my existence here. The window offers a white tunnel to make the ugliness of my situation more obvious. I pull my knees up close to my heart, and the dampening fog cast from my lips first warms my kneecaps, then chills them. I rock my back off and on a hard wall, and grow careless of the cold stone as I soothe myself, the way my mother never did. Do mothers do this? I bet mine is pretty.

What is happiness? A dream I had last night was warm. I played in the loving afternoon sun outside. The children all played nicely and laughed. I just woke up and it was cold. Can I go back to sleep now?



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