Sitting on the carpet of my room feels almost poetic.
In this room that is mine, but not really. With its floor that's always dirty even when it's free from objects.
The hard wall on my back and the hard floor numbing my ass feels almost sentimental. Its philosophical making faces in the mirror across the room, while my mum is crying in her room about the new fight her and my dad had concerning something that doesn't really matter, while my nine year old sister routinely comes into my haven to ask me to come comfort mum and I just cant. I say I have too much to do, when really, It's my fault I sit here doing nothing, getting in trouble at school because while I hear the sobbing I cant seem to do anything more than pile the junk on my pile onto my bed and sit on the grubby floor thinking thoughts, writing sentences like these.
And I know by the next hour I will have found my list of stuff to do. So I was determined to do at the time, but in retrospect I wasn't, leave it discarded on my floor. I will reverse my action and move all my stuff off my bed and lie on it, mouthing soft music looking at the shadows created by the dim blue light projected by my speakers.
But at this time of sitting on the almost yellow carpet I feel precarious and alive and free and, like I said, poetic.