I lie in my cheap burgundy recliner and stare, stare up into the sky, where the brushed silver chandelier hangs like a flower, where the beige fan hovers, like a mosquito who just tapped into an elephant. The odd angles, the maze of white doors, the traditional-meets-quirky, ties my mind into confusion and delight. I planned each angle to reach up and take me with it, to lift me into the cathedral ceiling, to sooth me with the metallic teal carpet, like a wading pool in a candy factory. This is my great room and it's great to be here, safe from life. The walls chew on me like Bazooka Bubblegum, not pink, not purple, but something completely different. With the blinds drawn, darkness falls on each angle differently. It's my private Grand Canyon making love to the sun, that only I can control. After all these years I still meditate on the lines, the colors, the textures, the death of silence. Never let it be said that this is just a house, or just a room. This is where I sat when she left me, this is where I lay when she loved me, that's where I fell asleep so drunk, only my finger could move enough to wave the white handkerchief to God. And here's where I sit, seeing the world between my feet, knowing the farther down I lie, the harder it is to get back up again. In my blackest sorrow I've sat here, paralyzed, in my comfortable corner, in my comfortable chair, the only two certainties of security. If I stay here, they'll never get me.
January 13, 2011 Copyright �2011 Michael Paul