The Room That Bled

The wall was hard against her back. Her knees were up against her chest and her arms were wrapped around them like weak, pale chains. Those tying her to the floor at that moment were not quite as weak. She could see the sky through the window; no stars and no moon, just a pitch black sky stretched over the rooftops. It had been raining that day, so little drops were racing down the smooth surface of the glass as if it were crying. She stared blankly at them and thought about how empty the night was.

This room was the only place she felt safe. This small, insignificant room was her home. The walls were covered in her handwriting; poems, descriptions, dreams, and against them leaned paintings. Some were still wet. The easel stood in the centre of the room and on it sat a blank canvas. Tubes of paint were spread on the floor and on a bookshelf swamped by too many books. What was she to leave this room for?

Whenever she stepped outside, she drowned in the noise of cars, stress and people lost in empty conversations; their dreams narcissistic and their imaginations nonexistent. She bet they all had paintings of themselves hidden in the back of the closet where all their sins and worries and wrongs ate away at their faces. How did something as beautiful as the earth turn into something so ugly?

The sky was still black in the night. She knew there were stars up there somewhere, billions of them. She had read about galaxies and black holes and supernovas. The stars had always been a mystery to her and now they would not even wink at her to assure her they had not all disappeared. Perhaps they had. Maybe they had all died and now she could never solve their riddles.

She turned away from the sad window and squinted at the canvas in the centre of the room. She could see the colours floating across the white surface. In her mind she could feel an image taking shape and it would never make sense to anyone, sometimes not even her. The chains felt lighter as she rose and dragged her feet towards the easel. She picked up a brush and a tube of green on her way. She dipped the brush and gently stroked the blank canvas. The second the brush touched the white surface, she was not as weak anymore. Leaves were turning into trees and she could sense the fresh smell of a forest after rainfall as she painted. Her hand moved gracefully and for a while she stopped thinking. She picked up a tube of red and caressed the bottom of the green, but these strokes looked like flames and all of a sudden the silence wasn’t quite as peaceful anymore. She could feel the whole room burning and hear the crackling of burning paper. She could feel the heat spreading throughout her body all the way to her fragile mind. Suddenly she started slashing at the canvas. Red was violently splashed all over the canvas and all over the room. The burning picture was now bleeding. The poems on the walls were bleeding. Her eyes flooded and tears rushed down her cheeks as the entire room was bleeding. The knife was thrown on the floor. She let her body fall and it melted into the mess. She cried hysterically and screamed into nothing. No one could hear her.

She lay curled up on the floor, her face buried in her stained hands. The flames had faded away with her tears and her veins were not boiling anymore, but the room was still bleeding. She pulled herself to her feet and saw the window was still crying. So much sadness and loneliness and fear had never been gathered in one person’s mind. She was sure of that and sat down with her back against the wall again. At that moment her eyes met the canvas in the centre of the room. They were met by a new face; a content, peaceful face in the centre of the chaos she had created. She gazed at the sky once more and realized that the blackness was not black at all, but several different shades of blue melted into each other. That is when the stars appeared like drops of ink on a paper napkin and the silence turned peaceful.

Oslo, I Love You

My dear city, how I love you,
though I sometimes escape you.
I will keep your secrets as long as you keep mine.

I do not run because
I want to escape you
some things you hold, they frighten me.

You will always be mine;
my home, which holds my heart.
I might escape to the peace of mountains, sweet loneliness!

Always, my love, I will return
no matter where I run
For you are my city and dear city, I love you.