I lay here on the ground, arms and legs spread; the only thing separating me from the cold of my old scuffed up hardwood floor as I trace the cracks, creating indecipherable patterns, along my faded yellow-white bedroom ceiling is my shaggy beige rug that just screams hand-me-down. I listen as the persistent dripping of one of the many leaky spots on the ceiling and the obnoxiously loud ticking of my round black clock come together to create an indistinguishable beat.

There’s no need for my iPod tonight; the one that’s still lying on my worn faded brown comforter, where I had carelessly tossed it when I came in earlier this afternoon. Tonight the raging storm outside my open window is my music. The frantically wild rain is my melody, the thunder my drums, and the howling wind that threatens to rip off my old peeling window is my haunting singer wailing for attention, desperate for anyone and everyone to listen to her. While she sings her sorrowful song, the light from the various shaped candles smattered all throughout my bedroom on every scratched and scuffed flat surface available dances with the shadows they create, silently moving to their own intricate rhythm. They move as though forbidden lovers forcibly torn apart from one another, always attracted to each other desperately trying to come together as one but never truly touching, disappearing with every strike of lightning before they can ever succeed.

With that thought a powerful gust of wind burst through my bedroom window, unsettling the flickering flames from their tragic dance. The bitter sharp cold that comes with the breeze momentarily relieves my burning face from the almost overbearing warmth resonating from the multitude of lit candles currently casting my room in its dim and comforting glow. I close my eyes and enjoy the smell of rain that follows as its fresh crisp scent fills my nose sending a strangely reassuring jolt through my veins.

In this moment.

Right here.

Eyes closed. Arms and legs spread. Cooped up in the shelter of my old rundown bedroom, protected from the rampaging war surging outside my room with the comforting and cocooning embrace of candlelight, it’s like nothing else exists. All that matters is this room, these dancing candles, this cracked and leaky ceiling, this scuffed floor, and this worn rug.

Nothing else.

Just me and my sanctuary. 

The End

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