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A need for immunity (Scenario Write .2)
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Whenever I went to sleep, I found myself yearning for the same thing in the dull polyester sheets of my confined bedroom. Same place, same face, same sound, something I felt full in. Somewhere where I didn’t seem like i stuck out in the picture, rather fit in quite nicely. Not just blend in, but stand boldly against the ink and paint of a revered memory; a picture in my mind.
As the watercolor blur structured itself into a cohesive image projected onto the back of my eyelids, I’d drift off. No longer was the still frame trapped behind the glass of harsh reality, but melded with the dreamscape i emersed myself in. And as the world rendered around me, I felt things swirl through my senses; Warm glow, cold glass, hot food, crowded floor, two faces, four hands, two pairs of socks, and security.
Rain gently caressed the thick glass window, muddling the city’s inanimate features with flurys of life. Stiff and still building facades peppered with muted signs and posters, aloong with the occasional punctuation of street lights and glowing yellow windows sat behind the footsteps of foot traffic. The sun hung at about 4:00 PM, low in the gloomy March sky, wrapped in a blanket of smooth slate gray clouds.
The sliding doors opened with a slowed woosh, as I stepped inside the tiny Chinese restaurant. Hit with the savory smells of heart warming and soul comforting foods, I shot the server a glowing smile, which was met with a small upturn of the lips. The mustard yellow walls decorated with dark ornate wood trim and intricate tapestries seemed to hug me as I strolled through the restaurant floor, running into no one other than the server. I caught the smells of rich flavorful food as I walked passed the front counter, glancing at the takeout orders accumulating on the corner of the black marble countertop. Walking through the door that separates the front of the restaurant to the back, I pass the bathrooms in a small off-white hallway, sharping right, towards the darkened stairwell.
The sinking brown wooden slats creaked under my feet with each step as I reached the top of the stairwell. I was met with a long hallway- the floor blanketed in juniper green cut-pile woven carpet. The tinted yellow lights placed between every other door doused the scene in a warm haze, flickering occasionally. There were about six dark wooden doors on either side of the hallway, each plastered with a small gray metal rectangle stating randomized numbers. I usually find myself analyzing spaces like these. Liminal in reality, yet something feels so stagnant. Almost like standing in a time capsule, imagining the things that have come and gone of this dingy little hallway atop the Chinese Restaurant.
Slowly, I move to my door.
"Second down, on the left," I'd tell myself the first few days of living here. Slipping the key into the old lock, I found myself fidgeting with the worn brassy handle before pushing open the door.
I was greeted with the warm golden glow of lamps and the smell of fresh linen scented candles that sat atop the small kitchen table near the front door. Walking through the doorway, I saw my trash can, nearly full of takeout boxes and used food packaging. I took a second to stroll to the lightswitch on the right wall, across from the entrance of the kitchen, flicking one switch upwards. With the quick flicker of a lightbulb, the small kitchen was illuminated by a white glow. A few cabinets lined the ceiling and Faux wood floor, separated by the oven, and half full sink containing a miscellaneous array of dishes.
Walking past the kitchen into my living space, I took a second to breathe deeply, and allowed the comfort of this tiny room wash over me. On the Pull out couch to my left, lies yesterday’s outfit atop a messy array of white and gray bed sheets. It comfortably consisted of a white baggy graphic Tee, light brown corduroy pants slouching off the cushions corner, his worn brown hoodie, and wired headphones seemingly plugged into nothing.
Across from the Pull out couch, a small box TV atop an old thrifted TV stand showed the news on the slightly grainy screen. I must've never turned it off this morning. In the lower compartments sat an array of vinyl records from many different genres of music, stacked neatly behind a small sliding collapsible bamboo door. Below that compartment was another which held a cassette radio, art supplies, cassettes, notebooks, and old vhs tapes gifted to me by my parents after I moved out.
In the center of the room was a colorful circle rug, slightly stained by the occasional drink spill, yet still presentable in full. Accompanying the rug were clothes and other belongings strewn about. Glossing over the mess made everything blur into an unintelligible blob, but if I could focus, I could find things like crumpled sketches, Polaroids, the occasional pencil, charger cords, half my wardrobe, etc.
In the far right corner next to the wide thick glass window draped in plastic blinds was my art desk. Messy to any other stranger, but mostly organized in a chaotic fashion to me. More sketches, pencils, markers, sticky notes, erasers, sketchbooks, all sat atop the tilted desk, spotlight by a cheap brass metal lamp. The only thing avoiding the glare of the lightbulb was a framed picture of me and them.
This is the home I dreamt of. My own seclusion from the outside world's near erosive properties. No discrimination, no biases, no pressure to conform, just me, and 100+ square ft of warmly lit memories.
Memories based in little reality, yet cherishable nonetheless.
© Rynne
__________
__________
#writco #writcoapp #writcostory
Whenever I went to sleep, I found myself yearning for the same thing in the dull polyester sheets of my confined bedroom. Same place, same face, same sound, something I felt full in. Somewhere where I didn’t seem like i stuck out in the picture, rather fit in quite nicely. Not just blend in, but stand boldly against the ink and paint of a revered memory; a picture in my mind.
As the watercolor blur structured itself into a cohesive image projected onto the back of my eyelids, I’d drift off. No longer was the still frame trapped behind the glass of harsh reality, but melded with the dreamscape i emersed myself in. And as the world rendered around me, I felt things swirl through my senses; Warm glow, cold glass, hot food, crowded floor, two faces, four hands, two pairs of socks, and security.
Rain gently caressed the thick glass window, muddling the city’s inanimate features with flurys of life. Stiff and still building facades peppered with muted signs and posters, aloong with the occasional punctuation of street lights and glowing yellow windows sat behind the footsteps of foot traffic. The sun hung at about 4:00 PM, low in the gloomy March sky, wrapped in a blanket of smooth slate gray clouds.
The sliding doors opened with a slowed woosh, as I stepped inside the tiny Chinese restaurant. Hit with the savory smells of heart warming and soul comforting foods, I shot the server a glowing smile, which was met with a small upturn of the lips. The mustard yellow walls decorated with dark ornate wood trim and intricate tapestries seemed to hug me as I strolled through the restaurant floor, running into no one other than the server. I caught the smells of rich flavorful food as I walked passed the front counter, glancing at the takeout orders accumulating on the corner of the black marble countertop. Walking through the door that separates the front of the restaurant to the back, I pass the bathrooms in a small off-white hallway, sharping right, towards the darkened stairwell.
The sinking brown wooden slats creaked under my feet with each step as I reached the top of the stairwell. I was met with a long hallway- the floor blanketed in juniper green cut-pile woven carpet. The tinted yellow lights placed between every other door doused the scene in a warm haze, flickering occasionally. There were about six dark wooden doors on either side of the hallway, each plastered with a small gray metal rectangle stating randomized numbers. I usually find myself analyzing spaces like these. Liminal in reality, yet something feels so stagnant. Almost like standing in a time capsule, imagining the things that have come and gone of this dingy little hallway atop the Chinese Restaurant.
Slowly, I move to my door.
"Second down, on the left," I'd tell myself the first few days of living here. Slipping the key into the old lock, I found myself fidgeting with the worn brassy handle before pushing open the door.
I was greeted with the warm golden glow of lamps and the smell of fresh linen scented candles that sat atop the small kitchen table near the front door. Walking through the doorway, I saw my trash can, nearly full of takeout boxes and used food packaging. I took a second to stroll to the lightswitch on the right wall, across from the entrance of the kitchen, flicking one switch upwards. With the quick flicker of a lightbulb, the small kitchen was illuminated by a white glow. A few cabinets lined the ceiling and Faux wood floor, separated by the oven, and half full sink containing a miscellaneous array of dishes.
Walking past the kitchen into my living space, I took a second to breathe deeply, and allowed the comfort of this tiny room wash over me. On the Pull out couch to my left, lies yesterday’s outfit atop a messy array of white and gray bed sheets. It comfortably consisted of a white baggy graphic Tee, light brown corduroy pants slouching off the cushions corner, his worn brown hoodie, and wired headphones seemingly plugged into nothing.
Across from the Pull out couch, a small box TV atop an old thrifted TV stand showed the news on the slightly grainy screen. I must've never turned it off this morning. In the lower compartments sat an array of vinyl records from many different genres of music, stacked neatly behind a small sliding collapsible bamboo door. Below that compartment was another which held a cassette radio, art supplies, cassettes, notebooks, and old vhs tapes gifted to me by my parents after I moved out.
In the center of the room was a colorful circle rug, slightly stained by the occasional drink spill, yet still presentable in full. Accompanying the rug were clothes and other belongings strewn about. Glossing over the mess made everything blur into an unintelligible blob, but if I could focus, I could find things like crumpled sketches, Polaroids, the occasional pencil, charger cords, half my wardrobe, etc.
In the far right corner next to the wide thick glass window draped in plastic blinds was my art desk. Messy to any other stranger, but mostly organized in a chaotic fashion to me. More sketches, pencils, markers, sticky notes, erasers, sketchbooks, all sat atop the tilted desk, spotlight by a cheap brass metal lamp. The only thing avoiding the glare of the lightbulb was a framed picture of me and them.
This is the home I dreamt of. My own seclusion from the outside world's near erosive properties. No discrimination, no biases, no pressure to conform, just me, and 100+ square ft of warmly lit memories.
Memories based in little reality, yet cherishable nonetheless.
© Rynne
__________
__________
#writco #writcoapp #writcostory
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