A gentle dust has settled here upon each surface of the room. In the dark, it's carved black, boxy gray, and wan moonlight. I should not come here, stand at the threshold, and stare into the hollowness. It doesn't change things. But still I come.
The room is filled with nameless things: prickled, hostile distances in narrow places; unfinished sentences and tapered words; yawning chasms. It is a place of undone, a place of inaction. Sometimes a place of too many actions. It brims, this room, brims and overflows and yet is so vastly empty. It offers me nothing. But still I come.
I stand in the doorway, my toe a careful line between where I am now and where I have been before. My eyes move from one thing to the next, taking in the accumulation of abandonment. It is thicker in places than others and on those surfaces, I see the reflection of things I've come back to too often. There, I can see the hasty swipe of my hand on top of a moment. The grooves of my fingers are still tracks in the dust, slowly being covered over. I stand here in the doorway, my hand a claw around the frame, and keep myself from going inside to handle things I ought to leave alone.
My thoughts beat a warning: Don't. Don't. Don't. I force myself to recall the times I have entered: how I picked up and studied and worried at those bits of time and how after I felt swollen and scraped. Memory fills up the spaces but I still manage to create pathways wide enough for me. I force myself to stay outside but I cannot keep my mind from wandering in.
I tell myself there's good in here. It's good to see it all because remembering keeps me from repeating, but in large part it isn't. And I know that. But I am drawn here time and time again. All I can do is paw through the piles and boxes and shrouded furniture, reliving every moment. And it isn't good for me at all.
I stand in the doorway to a room full of my mistakes. There are so many—old and new—and I punish myself so often by examining them. And while I will not let myself go inside, I cannot make myself go out. It is just me, my memories, and a hollow room.