my room

every time i wake from sleep, i wake up in my room. everything i wear is in my room. most of the things i buy stay in my room. my identity card stays in my room for the vast majority of my life. if i live to be seventy-six, it means it has stayed in my room for fifty years and eight months. the walls of my room close in on me when i am unemployed, when i have no money, when i am alone. my room knows almost no one but me. no one has been able to hurt me in my room, no one can. i am safe in my room. i eat in my room. i drink the majority of all the water i drink in my room. if i were rich, i would buy a bunch of stuff for my room. perhaps i would spend more than all the money i've earned so far on things that will just sit in my room. i even look outside from my room's window. sometimes i feel nice. it snows, i look outside, i see white. i look at night, orange and dark. if it were something capable of knowing, it would know everything about me. how much i've changed over the years wouldn't escape its notice either. my room is sometimes big, sometimes small. if i found a better room, i would move.