In My Room

Let me take you to a place that I know.  It’s a place where I can just be, a blank canvas where my mind rests, where I can reach out to you in the only way I know how.

There is a room, it’s not very big, but it’s big enough that when the door is shut and locked you don’t feel claustrophobic.

The white door is locked from the inside.  The paint has aged and is flakey, it could have been duck egg blue at some point.  The handle and locking mechanism are ornate brass, bright, shiny and smooth on the parts that are handled the most but tarnished on the rest of it. I don’t know where the key is to get out.  It’s OK though because I have no intention of removing myself from this room any time soon.  And even if I want to remove myself, all trace of the room magically fades away.

The walls are white. I’m not sure if they are cracked or faded because I hardly ever take my eyes of the door.

There is a window. Outside the sky is always blue. Sometimes there are white fluffy clouds, but they are never grey and the sky is never completely overcast. Trees frame the window, when I glance over I can see the green leaves dancing in the breeze. I don’t think the room is on the ground floor because all I can see is trees and sky.

The floor is definitely faded.  I can see when I am laying on it. There are wooden floor boards, slightly uneven, like you get in old English cottages.  They creak when you walk across them, not that I do much walking.  I imagine that when I cry my tears seep through the cracks..

Despite there being a bed in the room, a wrought iron bed with simple sheets, I lay on the cool floor facing the door which is an arm’s length away.  I can just about see under the door, but it doesn’t look like anything, just darkness.

I imagine you in the adjoining room, laying like me – on the floor, an arms reach from the door.

You can poke your fingers though the crack under the door, and I can do the same.  It’s to let each other know we are still there.  We can’t hear each other  because neither of us have the strength to talk in words.  We can’t see each other, apart from our finger tips, but it is somehow comforting, especially when you reach out far enough and our fingertips touch momentarily.


In two locked rooms it feels so far away from each other, much like reality. But when our fingertips touch all distance is lost and it feels like you are really here with me in my room.

Love Sailor xox

P.S I’ll be back soon, studying is almost over.

About Hellosailor

Writer, painter, nurse. Borderline, Bipolar, awesome.
This entry was posted in Art, Borderline, General Thoughts, Mental Health and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to In My Room

  1. Le Clown says:

    Le Sailor,
    I’ve seen a recent sci-fi with a scene with fingers under a door like yours, Dark Skies I think. Spooky as shit.
    Le Clown

  2. Maggie O'C says:

    Le Sailor,
    Beautiful writing. Good luck with exams!

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