unopened rooms

Walking into a room that hasn’t been opened in so long, you move slowly as if to avoid disturbing the thick curtains of past memories. You are so aware that every breath is creating craters in the fabric of the gloom that you almost stop breathing at all. The stillness is palpable and the experience seems surreal. As your fingers graze a tabletop it feels like you have lain your hand on soft skin. The smell of yellowing pages and the remnants of leathery bindings are uppermost in the bouquet of gentle decay here, but it beckons to you, like a comforting blanket from a childhood long forgotten. You cast your eyes over the inhabitants, the heavy vases, peeling wallpaper and the shelves of the bookcases, all covered by the protective, unbiased coat of time. You want to become a part of this place, to find your niche and fade into this composition, barely breathing.