Safely barricaded in my room: a safe haven, free from intrusion, coercion,
good humour, the niceties of being frowned upon and mocked. Fuelled by
books, by writing viscerally, by an endless and insatiable stream of music,
I can eke out a life of sorts. Maybe I'll choose, sometime soon, to allow
another into my sacred solitude: only a couple of people fit the bill. The
others test my patience and bring sacrilege into my realm.
The passion is so great, as I sit, stand or lie down in my room, as I
absently pick out a melody on my gaffa-taped acoustic guitar, or maybe
drink wine while reading the latest book on the 1944 Warsaw uprising.
A film about madness and fraternity, about drugs and science. A piece of
writing that drains my very body.
Peace descends once more, and I can breathe: no fear when I am in my room.