The man in the room

There once was a man; quite thin, quite tall. He enjoyed all the little things in life and the view from the park.

This man was in a room; quite small, quite closed. It was made of wood and had a Morning Glory Vine roof.

He sat there, thin and tall, in his house made of wood. His chair, he made it himself, his hands were rough and skilled, though his arms where long and thin.

The wooden house, covered in Morning Glory Vine, had only one window. It had four corners, no kitchen, no loo. The man was sitting there in the chair he made himself; he was looking out of the window.

Out of the window the man saw the Morning Glory Vine, all kind of little bugs walking on it. Further off were trees and grass, and a sky the man could not watch.

He sat there, thin and tall, looking to his Morning Glory Vines and the trees further off. His own chair below him, and books all around him. The house with one room was made of wood and it had nothing but a chair and loads of books.

The window was broad and wide, the trees were green outside. The house made of wood with a Morning Glory Vine roof, was in the middle of the field, surrounded by the trees. This room, it had no door, no way out.

The room with the man in it, not only it was made of wood, it was also warm. For the man, it all lasted forever, his eternal watch to the outside, but with his mind on the chair he made with his own hands. His hands where rough and skilled, though his arms where long and thin.

The man in the room was sitting there, all alone, with a window to the past and loads of books. He was alone; he could not help it, yet he did not build a door. This man, quite thin, quite tall, he was ephemeral, one moment he was there, the next moment he wasn’t.

So fleeting, so perishable, so light, so ephemeral. Did he, himself even existed? He was once a man, and he enjoyed all the little things in life and the view from the park.

He sat there in the room he made himself with the chair he made himself, with his so skilful hands, and he looked through his window on his own, thinking, thinking about what, about everything! About the Morning Glory Vine that grew on his house, about the books all around, about that warmth and yet that cold, about the past and about the future.

He spent his life in the introspection of his house; there wasn’t an inch he did not know, the carved wood, every leaf in the Morning Glory Vine, his books, the window.

And yet every second lasted like centuries in that glorifying view of everything he craved for. Life was so still, there in the meadow. Life begun and death attacked. Cycles and cycles repeating again and again, the man in the room with Glory Morning Vines in the roof wondered, would there be a day when the world would die?

All alone staring out of the window in that house made of wood, he thought of someone he used to know, and a place he used to live in, and someone he used to be, and he thought how happy he was and he thought how sad he was. Because, for the man in the room, there is no happiness without sadness, and no sadness without happiness. The man both smiled and cried, and he sat still in the chair he made himself, with his hands so skilled.

It was all so still, so quiet, so soundless. He wondered if he was alive or if he was dead, he wondered what happens when we die and what happens before we are born, he wondered if he would ever see them again, if he would ever sleep eat or breathe again, if he would ever speak aloud again, if he would meet the end of his loneliness, if he would ever find a place to call home, if he would ever build anything again. He wondered.

Was there an end to infinity? How broad was the mind?

His house was small, because in a closed space you feel a little bit less lonely and yet you are completely alone to yourself. There was comfort in the small, it was cosy and it was warm. The Morning Glory Vine made it look both old and wise. The window let him see all he ever wished to see, both sad and happy things, and yet all so still.

There once was a man; quite thin, quite tall. He enjoyed all the little things in life and the view from the park.