Room. funny funny word. Kind of stupid to say. Kind of silly to think that for something so ever present and far reaching as rooms are in civilization--in our relationships, our senses of identity--for as tangled up with who we are as rooms are, it's a dumb fucking word.
I really love rooms. I don’t think people pay them much mind, though. It might be that the name is the reason but I suspect that this is not the primary cause.
The majority of all of our lives are spent in rooms, the beginnings and ends, yet we usually divide our attentions towards things happening in the room rather than the room itself.
On a large enough scale, at a fast enough rate, the building, life, and then decay of a room and a building is quite a dramatic show, albeit—less intense and bombastic than a human life. Each room is a monolith and a testament and a piece of art because it proves that someone existed and reached out through time to help me with my life, and that reaffirms the fact that we both exist and do have an impact. Yet I can be so thankless to the drywall, or the ceramic tile. One day, it too, like me, will be gone. We won’t see it go, and I guess it never really did anything, but it gave so much. Sometimes a room can give you more than any person possibly can. Some rooms gave me permission to give myself the things that I needed.
If you ever realize that you’re in a room, which can be surprisingly difficult to remember, take a second to think about all of the lives it took to make it possible for you to be there—including you.