See you later...

This "Little House on Memory Lane" is mine too, yes? Surely, I have my own room here, with my small yet practical desk, next to a window overlooking a glass-paned lake...and there, in the corner, is my twin-sized bed with quilted blankets and fluffy down pillow. Its the only furniture I have, except for the desk, of course, and the wood straight back chair accompanying it. The fire-place is my favorite feature...flames leap,dance, casting shadows on sparsely furnished walls. But this is my room, "a room of my own." Crumpled drafts cover the large multi-colored braided rug, evidence that I don't like those ideas. But that's the beauty of this room: I don't have to like them. Safety lies within these walls. Secrets are shared, kept, concealed. But if my words stay here, how will they be heard? Some words I want to share. But won't. That's my explanation for the paper-littered floor. Write. Crumple. Toss...and the process repeats itself in morbid montany. I want to share everything with you. But listening is not your priority...harsh of me to say, isn't it? As familiar as this room is, I hardly know it anymore. I hardly know you. Memories hold little substance, enough to sustain you until the next ones are made...but I see little in the making. The cupboards are empty. The fridge is bare. I am leaving. I am going home...