My Space.

What is a greater need than fulfillment? As I sit her, sipping this wondrously prepared filter coffee, and resting my arms on a symmetrically constructed recliner, my need for comfort in my carefully bounded space is quenched. And this space is home to a thousand mystical questions and answers about beauty, the right, the wrong, and the deserving. And music of course. Wonderfully noted, octaved and written, music is the not so silent vehicle that these questions travel in. And still, insipid and banal thoughts stir me up, like occurrences submerged long ago.
As I smell the spiced up curry the mother prepares, I am thrown back, a bit too perilously into the lost, lovelorn arms of home. A space that I construct thence again, of black hollow walls, and images that reek of questioned happenings, smelling like the sweet aroma of mother's perfume, reminding one of a nascent childhood, long gone. And lights slowly engulfing your space into one whole being of creation, and you lie, in the vacuum, dead with satisfaction.
And as I sift through work, I very acutely hear the siring noise of the train, vociferously going past. And I drench into a space, so chaotic, so absorbing, and weirdly small.Only, the focus is on me, and I cry and wail my heart out for space, more space, more my space, more space for the body, but the others, abysmally ignoring my very presence seem to ignore the pleas too.
And green meadows reek of death, and cemeteries scare.
Space is nothing but a small room, for me and me alone, of words and lights, of photographs and music. And it is, but that, that leads me into sweet sleep, almost as sweet as death itself.