My life is a room.
The first wall is also the last one, is black, blank, empty.
The second one is the most colorful of them all, is hazardous, is a swirl of colors and sounds, of first steps and first words. It is full of everything that actually matters, is joyful and happy because every stroke of that paintbrush is chaotic, random and at the same time is perfectly ordered.
The third wall is a mixture of wants and needs that almost never coincide. It's ordered and defined in a predetermined path at the end and a little bit unclear at the beginning. When looking at it, you can only see the victory of necessity over wishes and comfortability over hopes and desires from a long lost idealistic childhood.
The fourth wall is both the most boring and tired looking of them all. Here and there are splashes of color from other people's second wall, but in the end, it's all dull and full of regrets. The joy of being here, so close to the end, is ruined by past mistakes and unfulfilled desires. This wall is crossed easily and monotonously.
The first wall is close by again, blankness near and inviting, no bright light or loved ones waiting at the gates of Heaven, just darkness and emptiness. Closure in a way and finally peace.
This is my room, my life. Is average, it just is, not to impress or to disgust anyone, but simply to be, to exist, void of any purpose or meaning.

[photo: /www.katherinedutiel.com/series/the-white-room/]