Flatpack Feelings

I haven’t let myself feel for a long time. I’ve cut myself off from that. Haven’t opened the door to that room, that space inside. Deep down. Beneath it all. I’ve locked the door and misplaced the key. I hadn’t realised how long I’d been without. Didn’t realise what that would mean. 

I’m not entirely sure I miss spending time in that room. Not sure I long to sit on the comfortable sofa, to listen to its songs, feel the warmth on my skin. I’ve been just fine using the other rooms, exploring new spaces, forgetting about that one. 

I haven’t missed the careful dusting. The scraping out the ash from the fire, replacing the coal and the wood and newspaper. The plumping of the cushions, the hoovering, the upkeep. I haven’t missed creating space for someone else. Emptying out a drawer, pulling out a second chair, setting another place at the table. 

I haven’t missed the sapping of care, donating time, expending energy - a second consideration for the design. I have indulged in making the choices myself, without a second voice chiming in. The door has stayed locked, the room allowed to lie fallow. For the chair to tuck in, the drawer to close, the fire to go out. 

I’m not sure I’m ready to go back there. Or whether that’s even an option. Whether there’s a need to. Whether I can justify finding the key. But I can tell the stereo’s been turned on, that the fireplace is catching. I can feel a beat, hear a melody rising up through the floorboards. Reminding me it’s down there, not letting me completely forget.

The other rooms are nice. They’re easy to clean, don’t take so much looking after. The sheets can be changed and the old ones packed away. The curtains can be swapped out for a different fabric. The walls transform with a fresh pot of colour. 

It’s easy to move around in those rooms. To try different decorating styles. Hold a different wallpaper up to the light and see how long it takes for the pattern to change. See how much of the design you can take, before you need to find another. 

Those rooms have an expiry date, a deadline. They’ll work for a time, bring you joy and pleasure, but there’s a comfort that you’ll outgrow them. A cosiness in the fact that you can always take a trip back to the hardware store. 

I don’t have to make them last, because they weren’t designed to. Flatpack feelings, but maybe I’m ready to find some more permanent furniture.