The room is small. There is just enough room for a bed, a chair and bookshelves. There is only one book on the shelves, it is Henry James “The Golden Bowl.” The walls are painted white, not the new blazing whiteness of white like a wedding gown, but the faded whiteness of underwear washed numerous times. The walls are bare. The room’s door is the color of pinecones – burnished brown. I am not in this room. It’s three am and I am asleep. I am asleep in a room where the walls are the color of a cantaloupe – a dull green, and there is a four-drawer dresser, a television set, and a bed. I am in a room that is made of water. Colors shimmer in the water – indigo, emerald and yellow. I can step into the wall and take a shower. I can dive down into the floors and swim forever, there is no bottom.
I am in a room that is the size of a brown box where there is barely enough room to crawl. If you were to sleep in this room, it would be curled up on your side, knees against your chest like a folded chair, and arms above your head. You can breathe in such a room if you know not to think too much.
I am in a room that is small, just enough room for a bed, a chair and bookshelves. There is only one book on the shelves, Henry James “The Golden Bowl.” The room has a hardwood floor, a mattress lies on the floor, and a man lies naked on the mattress. His black hair is spread on the pillow beneath his head. His long, lean body rests nestled against the white linen sheets that cover the mattress. He seems to be sleeping deeply, and his breath rushes softly out of his slightly parted, moist red lips. I stand and watch him sleep. I sit down and watch him sleep. I start to talk. I tell him my name and that I am asleep in a room that looks different from this one. I tell him five things about myself.
1. That I like dogs better than cats.
2. That I like fruit out of a can.
3. That I like being asleep more than I like being awake.
4. That I think I am lost.
5. That I hate eating sugary cereal in the morning.