The Room Upstairs

I’m always in this private room upstairs, a room where everything is possible. Yes, everything. It never opens its door for anybody, other than me. Call it a hiding place if you will, but I’m not hiding from anyone, only from myself. Hiding from my beastly hair, bulbous nose, reed-like fingers, hairy shins. In the room upstairs, I have golden hair, a perfect nose, well-shaped fingers, muscled legs.

The clouds are much closer in the room upstairs. I can touch them, swim in them. I can hold a fluffy piece of it in the palm of my hand and try to taste it—it wisps away before my lips could come close, but always leaves the taste of the sky in my mouth. I part the clouds with my hands and I see my dreams hovering just within my reach, like fruit hanging from the invisible branches of some celestial tree. I pick them off one by one, depending on what dream I’d like to live for one day. But nothing ever escapes the walls of the room upstairs—everything just bounces off the four walls in their infinity. Then there will always be voices from the unseen corners of the room, imploring me to stay, to stay in this room where I can be happy.

But someone’s always knocking on the door, demanding that I come out. I never want to leave the room where everything is possible, but the knocks and the shouts grow louder outside, and I have no choice. But I know I can always come back, when I want to hide from myself—I just have to climb the stairs, reach for the doorknob, and I’ll be back where I belong.