Truly Alone

As I stared into the deep darkness of my night time room, I began to think about how my life is very similar to my room. Music flows through the walls and empty space of my room in sight and sound. Instruments fill every corner of my lonely enclosure. My bookshelf tells its very own story: the story of my past. Childhood memories are encrypted on the pages of Dr. Seuss and R.L. Stine. My desk, overwhelmed by a mixture of music and paint, sits in a mess underneath my very own political campaign poster, a token of my greatest day. Poems, lyrics, gameboy games, hats, and dress shoes occupy a seat on my couch, leaving only space for two. Clutters of cloths fill my closet, struggling desperately to escape, while my pressed suit hangs nicely above the madness. Pictures line the walls, everyone laced with a memory of people and events. And the centerpiece of my domain is my bed. Nice and clean, with a type of organized chaos, my bed gives me the comfort I need during rough times, the warmth I need on cold nights, and a place to think, to dream. My room is a lot like my life. It truly shows who I am, in every area of my life. But like my life, the lights can turn off, making it difficult to do much of anything. When the lights go off, everything turns into a blur, nothing is clear. I stumble over things I knew was in the way, but couldn't see. I cannot see the faces in the pictures on my wall. I cannot see my music or my paints on my desk. I cannot read my childhood books. I am in total darkness. Completely alone. Nothing but my mind and my body, battling for the control. My body, the all knowing of everything physical. My mind, my conscious, knowing all of my dreams and aspirations. Neither one can be in control, but neither one is aware of that fact. We are all truly alone. And even thought I am in my bed, my place of comfort, I am lost in my room, in life. Only to wait for the light to come back on.