The Room I Return To

Like coming back from the world outside, I return to my small room and turn off the light. Leaving it on feels too heavy, too painful. The path I walked through the rain is still soaked, and there’s no way to wash away the frustration of the day. So I close my eyes, and in the quiet, I hear something flowing deep within. Thoughts begin to ripen on their own, like apples hanging in stillness.

The room I left and the room I return to feel different. Though it’s the same space, the world’s storms and the rain-soaked body make it seem unfamiliar. But when I quietly turn off the light and close my eyes, it becomes mine again—a space just for me. The day’s sorrow and anger dissolve into the dark, and deep reflections, inspiration, and poetic language begin to ripen like fruit.