The Empty Room

I'm not an easy person, asking if tasked with writing about The Empty Room—“which?” becoming consumed.

If I were consumed by the empty room, it mustn't be.

Peering in would suggest the room had a window.

“Is it impenetrable?” Breaking its glass to know for sure, I’d infiltrate and spoil the concept—filling it with auras of an outer world long pressed against it... alongside the jagged fruits of my curiosity.

“Is it windowless—do we hover above it?”

To see, to prove… the empty room mustn’t weigh a roof.

I’d slinky a measuring tape down like a long braid wondering how tall the walls are—‘cause if they're regulation walls I must've suddenly grown tall… and if I'm so big then this world isn't the one I've come to know, at all!

The emptiness climbs free. Disappointing.

If the room were a windowless, sealed cube of transparent construction, I'd surely catch many shadows cut across its naked floor… myself mirrored back, standing inside too, glaring—perplexed.

I’d deny its emptiness, again.

How can a room filled with shadows, duplicates and disappointment be sold as empty? To write about an empty room and make you care, you'd have to feel encouraged to envision the loss of something valuable that once was.

What if it's not my responsibility to make you care?

But if tasked to?

In working to conjure Nothing within you, it seems prudent to work against the summoning altogether. Hmmm seems almost as though to know my empty room… you must forget.

Such is my disposition, I couldn't write precisely about The Empty Room in even earnest attempt, so quickly coming to doubt its existence.

Frustrated, you’d exert yourself to convince me, then once everything’s said, done and undone again—would we not find ourselves confined within yours instead?