In my room


In my room, by myself, my closed door is a portal between one world and another. 

In my room, when my work is done, I take off my mask and forget how to lie and impress.

In my room, wide awake, with a pizza and a bottle of wine, I listen to songs by good friends I’ve never met, and hear the full octave range of my own emotions.

In my room, after dark, I feel closer to the people I avoid during daylight.

In my room, in stillness, I forget the fiction I’ve been taught to believe.

In my room, all alone, I have the best sex of my life.

In my room, under the stars, with nobody to compare myself to, my public identity dissolves into particles of comfortable awkwardness.

In my room, lying down, I slip away into the solar system of my imagination, perhaps to encounter some lonely unknown god, in her own room, in some far off dimension, patiently waiting, with a new message of truth, to be found.

In my room, without distractions, I empty my head by pouring words onto paper.

In my room, tucked away, my cat and I speak to each other in a language that only we can understand.

In my room, up too late, I stare into a computer screen like a zen monk watching a sunset, waiting for satori that never comes.

In my room, before dawn, I hear the muse whispering a soft melody, like a blue jay dancing across the dewy morning grass, before the sound of Manhattan traffic scares her away.

James McCrae