love: finding this a year later

My room no longer has blinds. I can’t remember when it happened. My life became an open stage and I become a specimen. Sometime after I painted everything I guess. I stripped everything, sat on the floor and looked at the nakedness of the walls. It was like seeing some stranger fully nude at a public pool change room, drying themselves with much abandon. And you don’t want to look but you have to. Not because it’s pretty, or fascinating, but because there, right there is the most vulnerable creature on earth. He is standing there; on cold tiles surrounded by greasy lockers. His feet are inches from a drain—a drain with enough hair caught in it to cover the world’s bald twice over. And this person has their underwear sitting on one of those slotted benches, and all they want is to dry their ass and jump into their clothes. And you’re trying not to watch but you have to. And he knows you do. He’s on display, or not him but what one has to perceive to be him.
I perceived my room to be desperate for life. For inhabitation. I guess I got so caught up in showing my room a goodtime I never hung the blinds back up. So I managed to not only show my room a goodtime but also a great deal of my neighbourhood.