It was a sterile home: a single room, with barren, plaster walls and polyurethane-stained, cedar floors. Just weeks had passed since it was cluttered the treasures of personal stuff, but it felt virgin.
Metronomic breaths and heartbeats were not enough to imbue the room with life. In its silence, it cried for objects of desire: articles and devices that made it occupied, codependent, and possessed. Mine.
Some worn-out artwork would give it the appearance of sophistication, pictures of family and friends would cause it to reminisce and belabor over the past, a second-hand rug would provide it with the imprints of soles that it had never met, and a handmade, maple coffee table would present it with rustic, country charm.
In its current state, it was incomplete – the shell of an apartment. It had been built from its frame outward – filled with fiberglass, painted, and now serving its purpose in enclosing this living space. With its vacant walls and unoccupied floor, it was hollow, lacking both character and identity. I think I’ll leave it that way.