The Yellow Room

I can’t remember when exactly it started being called the yellow room, and I don’t remember what it was ever called before then. Before, before then, the room was identified by its occupant, belonging to my sister, Alisha. Alisha’s room, it was called. Back then, what little wall did manage to remain visible was negative space narrowly framing rectangular posters in tones and shades of black–a dark brooding collection of music men, heavy with mood as they were of heavy metal. Window blinds were kept down and closed appearing as a horizontal stack of aluminum shadows, one nearly overlapping the other. Angled lines of light cast through the seams.

Alisha’s room was essentially the same as anyone else’s, reflective of her personality, general attitude, and disposition. The contrasting presence and absence of both space and light coexisting in contradiction and coalescing to form personal confines was expressively bipolar. Depending on the time of year, day of week, hour of day, or moment in time, the blinds could open and fill the room with blinding brightness, or just as surely, close shut and flood the room in blinding darkness. Light allowances were not decided, so much as they just happened.

The room was neither wholly subject to itself nor its environment, but instead imperceptibly suspended within contracting and expanding edges of existence between hushed, subtle beauty and nihilistic aggression. Since then, the room has become vacant, its original contents removed, discarded, and replaced with a sense of anew offered by its new furnishings. The blinds are kept open, keeping as much light in as will stay, and the blank walls promptly painted over in sun yellow so as to now forever be simply referred to as the yellow room.


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