The Walls of the Room

In the evening, her eyes wither, lost in a spiral of thoughts, searching for a flower asleep in the shadows of light — but she remains alone. No voice comes from an old love, no gentle breezes perfume the soul with the glow of longing. No one but scattered words across email messages and comments carrying a hint of cunning, justifying this remaining with no one.

She feels like a body in a closed space, besieged by dark walls empty of memories, where loneliness surrounds her wall after wall. No one but a mind plotting another scheme.

Another morning dawns. The body stretches on the bed, alone, rises sluggishly searching for another light and the deception of illusion.

Fear creeps in from knocks outside the walls of solitude. She needs to go out, but fear prevents her. Both are fear — but the streets carry a fear more cruel than the fear of walls.

She whispers to herself: If I stay, boredom will kill me.

She puts on her colorful clothes and strange accessories, moves her body with the coquetry of a woman trying to reclaim her allure, and goes to the workplace where she practices her deception.

She orders her coffee and delights in issuing commands, inventing objections and stolen ideas.

She tells herself: Here I am stronger than those dead walls.

The room is the stage where the acts of the play unfold. She knows everything; the others play supporting roles.

The scenes end. She bids the place farewell.

She draws a cunning smile on her lips and says to herself: Another moment of the time of survival has passed.

The phone game begins with a deceiver more experienced in the art of fraud: My mind has taken its full measure in every space of work, and the others do nothing.

She delights in his responses to her conversation. But the walls of the room she has returned to besiege her with the truth: fear and the triviality of the role.

A sudden sound rises. She throws herself under the bed and lets out hysterical screams. Then silence prevails, waiting for another night.