I stepped inside the room and fell. Bottomless. I am still floating. Haven't touch the floor since. Only that floor. The room's floor. My feet freezing. There's no heating in there and it is cold outside.
I never made a secret of hating my Weimar apartment. It has three small rooms, a small kitchen and a big bathroom. Low ceilings, linoleum on the floor, central heating. I tried to make it comfortable and feel at home in there but I don't.
What is it about this room that makes me feel at home? I am not sure. A friendliness, a softness, a balance. The walls evoke memories but I don't know of what. Of drawings I have seen before. Or maybe I haven't. Maybe I have just been waiting for them. Or have seen them just now, looked away, forgot about them and remembered them when I looked again.
I wonder if this room might look like the inside of my head. In fact I would like it if the inside of my head would look like this room. Traces of past events, shapes and structures. But when I am in this room, who is in my head?
