The Room

I am a room of four walls, stripped of a door. I am not particularly skilled at organizing myself, so much so that everything inside me is cluttered, perhaps entirely too full. It feels so suffocating when I recall the belongings that almost drown me in my own space, and it is truly terrifying. I am not extraordinarily large, nor am I that small. I suppose my size is just right, even if it forces all my possessions to press tightly against one another. But I believe I am merely a compelled inevitability, or perhaps I am simply resigned to exist. Because I am certain that one day I will find something capable of arranging the things inside me—after all, I have no hands to sort them out myself.

There was a time when I was quite sure that what I stored would be of use, and I placed my faith in those belongings. So, I painted myself with the help of a wondrous brush that had suddenly slipped into my being—I don't even know since when. The paint I used was not thick; it felt light and held a sweet hue at first. It covered me gently, almost imperceptible as it sealed the pores of my concrete.

The brush continued painting the exact same color almost every day, until my shade grew richer and vividly bright. And hey, it wasn't bad. I liked it, and it was a pleasant feeling. Then, I asked a different, slightly smaller brush to trace a tiny picture over the color I already deemed beautiful, without the large brush knowing. I remember the small brush never even had the chance to draw anything, because I grew afraid. Afraid that what I did would hurt the large brush. So, I cast the smaller one away into the farthest corner.

Until one day, the large brush stopped painting me. By then, the color had become so heavy it no longer radiated beauty, so I let it rest for a while. I shifted my request; I no longer asked it to paint, but instead asked it to help me rearrange my heavy-looking furniture. It didn't matter if we took it slow, as long as the goal was clear: a neat and beautiful room.

Yes, you probably know the answer. The work did not go smoothly. Instead, the brush ruined and shattered the furniture. So I asked it to stop, with a smile and with patience, of course. Because I was fully aware that I was the one at fault this time. I still cared for that brush deeply.

Occasionally, I asked it to paint again with a different, softer color. But this time it refused, turning its face away from me in indifference. I was heartbroken and begged it to return. At that point, I didn't care if it wanted to paint again or not; I just loved it too much. Sometimes it felt close, yet other times it pulled further away than ever before. And the sinking feeling grew—this brush was deeply disappointed in me. So I let it go, letting it slip away through the cracks of my concrete walls, leaving the furniture lying in ruins.

One day, I tried forcing myself to manage the things that overwhelmed me. Because these things could not leave—I had no door to let them out. So, I forced it. I violently shook myself to one side, until all my belongings piled against a single wall. Eventually, the wall couldn't withstand the crushing weight, and it just shattered wide open. And heavens, it hurt so much. Trust me on that. Afterward, I threw almost everything out, save for two things: a small book and a desk.

If you could only imagine the piercing cold that seeped deep into my core through that gaping hole, you'd know there is no remedy that could ever cure it. I fully realized that nothing could ever make me whole again. I harbored a trace of regret—why didn't I make the brush stay in my room? But let regret remain regret; perhaps this is a penance I am bound to pay.

It is true now, my room is no longer full and suffocating. Nothing crowds me anymore, yet somehow it still feels so constricted and profoundly empty. Likewise, the paint on my walls grows dull and begins to peel. And the hole only draws in more of that unpleasant, bitter chill.

Not long after, wrapped in that sting, ache, and emptiness, a wondrous hammer and nail appeared. They arrived with kindness and a smile. Since I needed something to help me board up that empty void, I allowed them into my room.

Deftly, it brought out a plank of wood and struck it with a tiny nail. Just one nail, and the hole was completely sealed. Though it is no longer cold, this wood never quite makes me feel whole again. But I remain grateful for its presence.

This wondrous hammer is incredibly swift, moving with precision and skill. It manages to build beautiful, exquisite furniture, making me feel slightly present amidst the void. Yet, despite the hammer's brilliance, it can never paint my walls beautiful again. And the nail is forever bound to that hammer. That nail feels like a thorn embedded within my sturdy walls. And I am terrified that I will never be able to truly accept its presence.