Every version of creation stories and existence myths place us in interaction with something else – God, science, ourselves, the universe. What about nothingness? In solitude, we think relationships cease, but this is untrue.
Even when we are alone, we leave a mark on everything we have ever interacted with. Scents that human nostrils will long forget will linger in the atmosphere. Our touch will remain ingrained into the atoms of every surface. Memories of our aura and our taste will remain woven into the fabric of every room we have ever inhabited. The life force of every one of those relationships will be evergreen yet obscure, only to be seen when we give words to them in speech or writing.
The moan of the door as it scraped the ground was the second thing that welcomed me. It came after the scent of potpourri, so strong it greeted my nostrils before I walked in. Once inside, I was held firmly by a warmth that could only have resulted from unending hours of closed windows and drawn blinds. It was a sharp contrast to the atmosphere outside. I watched my host go about flicking light switches, unburdening his baggage, and sculpting the edges of rose-patterned pillows. He pranced around the room with a nonchalance that indicated mastery. If blindfolded, he would have nonetheless nailed this routine. This was his space, and I was a visitor privy to the sacredness of the relationship between a man and his furniture.
Suppose you ask a stranger the story behind a piece of furniture or an arbitrarily placed object lying around in their home. In that case, you might get a response indicative of disinterest in the forces surrounding them. Or you might get a beautifully startling response. Like the response, I got from a male college student who I shall refer to as Kyoto. Kyoto had something unique to say during a tour of his room:
I have a small box that is my space. I never call it home because that feels wrong to me. It is much too small and will be too fleeting for me to do that. That doesn’t take away my aura, person or identity from the corners and crevices of this room.
The first thing you would have noticed as you stepped in was the screech of the door as it scraped the ground. The louder drum of my heartbeat in response tells of nothing other than my irritation and desire for well-oiled silence. A silence characterised by newness and refinery. I am a fan of clean, silent places and good interior décor.
There is a shattered picture frame in the corner of the room with the words “Happy 20th” on the right corner and a picture with a quote from Goodwill Hunting right above it. It was a gift, probably the most thoughtful gift I have ever gotten. Someone cared enough to listen to me go on and on about how much I loved the movie and did something about it. It makes me feel good. I left it right there because I still plan to fix it or replace the frame.
I’m not going to let it go.
My occasional lack of intentionality is continually highlighted by the irregular stain patterns on the carpet. It’s not every time I remember to tell my visitors to take off their shoes, and it’s not every time I take mine off.
After saying this, Kyoto took a short walk to his bed and sat on it. He offered me a chair, slid out his laptop from underneath the bed, then gestured to the closed windows:
We had some burglary issues in my family home while growing up. Once, I caught a fair-skinned hand stretching down from the opened window in our guests’ room while the rest of the family was talking in the living room. We raised the alarm, but the perp got away with some of our stuff. Since then, I have always felt uncomfortable with exposed rooms and open spaces. The closed windows and special hiding place under my bed for my gadgets resulted from leftover trauma from that night.
As he spoke and told me about the stories behind the seemingly useless junk and the random arrangements in his room, I started to see the form take shape. Traces and strokes of him mixed with his objects and possessions told a story of a seasoned relationship. His hours spent alone at night, hours spent with plugged ears and a heavy heart, were all evident as I probed deeper. He was someone that shared an intense intimacy with his small box.
In the appropriate measure, being alone is a beautiful thing. The day starts slow and tempered. You are centred. You watch the light change from the hesitance of morning to the glare of the afternoon sun till you welcome the bliss of night, which is my favourite.
Waking up in your space, you could decide to sit on the floor and read a book. You could be in your chair with your laptop propped open by the afternoon. If you are like me, you are likely to return to bed to watch a movie, only to get up to shower before evening darkens entirely.
You’re alone, but in some ways, not really. You infuriate your wardrobe with each unfolded shirt you throw in carelessly. You dance with your carpet with each step you take, pacing mindlessly. Your scent keeps its grip on the curtains, sheets, pillows, and bed. Your memories run endless marathons in the four corners of the room, bumping into you from time to time.
You infuse yourself into every piece of furniture and junk in there. They, in turn, accept you. They respond to you. The room takes off your jacket when you walk in. It kicks off your slippers and leads you to the bed. It whispers to you as you sink in and sigh after a long day. It can be quite lovely.
I experienced a kinship with Kyoto. As he spoke, I recognised a word of truth. Not so long before that day, I had come across a picture on Instagram. Delfina Carmona took it, and it had a quote in the caption – “If the sun doesn’t come out in Berlin, get yourself a piece of furniture that becomes the sun in your home.” That was the beginning of my journey. I started to look at objects differently. Now, I breathe slower when I walk and sta
re a little harder. When I’m home, I go about with more care. It is just like the author Ian Samson writes in his article, The Hidden Meaning Behind Furniture:
All furniture communicates meaning – it’s unavoidable. It’s what things do. A bed speaks of our inner lives, body, and soul. Our cupboards and cabinets imply secrets. Wardrobes suggest our dreams of other worlds. And tables invite company.
Breathe a little slower; go about your days with more care. Let your fingers trail over your ‘junk.’ Wait for a second longer when you look in your mirror. Listen to what it might have to say. Think about how much fuller life would be if we could shine a little light on those relationships that would otherwise have only existed in obscure spaces.
