The Room

A description of the room in which I currently sit:

I sit in the corner at my black desk and type on my new laptop.  As my fingers strike the keys, black words appear on the white screen.  Next to my laptop lie magazines waiting to me read, a clock that keeps me aware of how late it is getting, some devotionals, a journal, and my phone.  The items on this desk keep in touch with or distract me from my world.  To my right, on the yellow wall is painted a green crocodile.  His teeth show, but he wears so a smile, so he seems quite friendly.  His companions are a painted over giraffe and an outline of a donkey drawn on the carpet by my two year old in permanent marker.  To my left is a closet full of spare bedding and junk.  Bags hang from the closet handles holding my superpowers and tools for the week's activities.  Next to the closet stands a bookshelf holding professional books, personal favorites, and family photo albums.  On the far wall, is a twin bed with reading lamps and more books waiting to be read.  The door is closed.  In this room, I am alone. 

A description focusing on mood:

12:47 AM.  I sit at my desk in the corner alone.  No one stirs.  No tiny feet run across the wood floors.  No four legged creatures play or fight.  No laughter rolls under the door and echos off the walls.  No raised screaming voices argue over the favorite toy of the moment.  Even the hum, bubble, and gurgle of the saltwater tank and accompanying sump seem nonexistent.  I type quietly on the keys and clear black words appear on the white screen.  Just as I hear no one and nothing, no one hears me.

I see the shadows of my monitor, the outline of my hair and figure, and my fingers moving around the keyboard.  The yellow walls seem miles away.  The crocodile painted on the wall and the outline of the donkey on the floor seem to shrink in their skin and disappear.  No chat windows are open.  I see no one, and no one sees me.

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply.  I do not smell the cake I just frosted sitting in the kitchen.  I do not smell the fabric softener from the load of laundry running in the dryer.  I don't taste the remains of dinner or the toothpaste that surely remains, if only faintly, on my teeth.  I continue to teach the keys on my keyboard.  They don't reach back for me.  I am alone.  I hear no one, see no one, feel noone, smell nothing, and taste nothing.  I am alone. I wonder about no one and somehow feel certain that no one wonders about me.