The Room sits on my wall


It is a writing desk, a restless-night-ridden jacket hanging neatly across the chair. I see a box. A seven by ten. Typeset like a copper American font.

The box is like a lawn hacker. Only the blades and the crazy are out getting coffee somewhere, and the machinery is left behind sedated. Thrumming. Waiting. I can’t see much, but I do see what it is. It is the idleness between the fury of creativity. A writer lives in these paintings, but I’ve never met him.

So armored with the knowledge that this will never be, I am now free to explore the unforgivables.

All the What ifs the world can give me.

What if  What if What if I was the painting hanging on his wall, and the writer’s painting on mine, and the two of us exist like ends of a pole.

What if What if What if one goes in, the other goes out. Each believing that they are the real one and the other is just a painting. Each wondering what it would be like to meet the mystery on the wall.

Wouldn’t it be, some kind of wonderful star crossed lover’s tale. So much so that if one day the invisible pole bends or slices short and one walks into the room seeing the other scribbling furiously lit up by the glow of pregnant ideas, it would be against the test of physics, time, and understanding. It will be fate.




2 thoughts on “The Room sits on my wall

  1. Love this idea! There are no paintings on my walls, only photographs. One though, is of a storm swept peninsular with a lighthouse … maybe there’s someone in the lighthouse, looking at a photo of a cosy living room, wishing they were safe and warm?

    Liked by 1 person

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