I've awoken
from a soft bed into
in a strange,
large,
dark room.
Taking in
my environment,
I notice three things:
First,
the walls are beige
and the color
gives off a strange
comforting feeling,
like I'm safe within them.
Second,
there is a lightly-stained
wooden desk,
content in the corner
to my right.
It looks like
someone's personal desk;
papers are scattered
on the surface.
Lastly,
the temperature
in the Room
is a relaxed warm,
not particularly
heated or air conditioned.

Despite the darkness,
which hinders my vision
just slightly,
I feel at ease.
Of all the questions
I could ask right now,
like,
where am I?
or,
how did I get here?,
only one seems
to stick out:
where do I go from here?
I stand up to the right
of the bed
and consciously take
a couple steps
forward,
aware of my breathing.
Squinting ahead of me,
a door comes into view
at the center of the wall.
I can exit through it.

But, I don't.
The only reason I have
to leave
would be to know
what's on the other side.
I scan the room once more
then again face the door.
With a deep,
slow breath,
I turn my back
to it.

As intelligent
and serious
as the Room may appear,
I feel welcomed
and safe in it...
a place
I can truly reveal
myself to.
But I have yet
to reveal all of it.

I walk to the
other side of the Room.
Facing a wall
parallel to that of
the door,
there are rows,
upon rows,
upon rows,
of books.
Some are lengthy,
and some are thin.
Some are brightly colored,
but others...
not so much.
I gape at this
breathtaking sight,
unsure where to start.

And so,
I read those books.
I read nonstop,
without a trace of worry
toward time,
sleep,
or other existences
outside of this Room.
None of it seemed
to matter here.

The stories told
in those books
were vivid recollections
of times in someone's past.
Soon I started
to notice some patterns.
All the dark books
were crying tales
of broken times.
The brighter the book color,
the happier the memory,
so on and so forth.
Next,
the amount of light
in the room
was directly proportional
to the emotion of
the memory.
(The more cheerful
it was,
the greater light
I was surrounded by,
and vice-versa.)
Of course I found this
to be strange,
but I grew fond of it.
With each book completed,
I felt as if
I knew and understood
the Room better.

One time,
after resting for
what seemed to be
a couple hours,
I woke up
shivering cold.
This was not normal...
in fact,
I was worried.
Upon sitting up,
I immediately noticed
a difference in the Room.
The desk perched in the corner
no longer looked personalized,
but stale,
with dusty cobwebs.
Looking to my left
at the bookshelf,
it had been encased
in glass,
with a padlock at the center.
A sudden loneliness
washed over me
and I longed for the
invisible feeling of
companionship
the Room had given me.

I thought back to the door,
wondering if
it was time to let go,
even after
all my experiences here.
It was a difficult decision.
The change in setting
told me it was time.
But I didn't want to leave.
I wanted to stick through
the cold parts and
enjoy the endearing ones.
I had grown close to
the Room,
and giving that up seemed
out of the question.

The Room
will always be a part
of me.
Presently,
I think about it
many times throughout the day.
It doesn't feel as inviting
when I visit,
but the Room and I
have much history together.
And that is one fact
that neither it nor I can deny.