The Living Room

The living room I'm sitting in is an ocean of sites, smells, movement and touch.

I don't think I've ever noticed before, but the wind is spilling through the cracked-open window like a chilly river over a waterfall. The air grabs the plant's leaves and gently shakes them while it spills down to the floor. It then spreads outwards, over my toes and on through the apartment.

It brings with it new smells. Crisp clean air. It sweeps away the smells of cooking and replaces them with all the colours of autumn. Colourful air.

Else where shadows dance. The sun has set and the bright of day has been replaced by the softer glow of bulbs. Shadows began to settle into corners and under chairs, where they built strength and grew. Like watching a young man age to old, the shadows crept in leaving the room and older more wrinkled visage. Normally an invisible change, except with patience.

While the cool wind rolls over the floor, the warm computer sits on my over-warm lap. It's hard smooth form has a bee's buzz to it. It's all exactly opposite from the softness of the couch upon which I sit. The fabric looks grey but the cushions, so soft, make a feeling of yellow and orange.

The TV is spewing it's drivle into the room, but a host of other sounds clamber over and around each other to be heard. The child outside wants to be heard, by some one, and the computer sitting in the corner tries valiantly to drown him out. Then a diesel is started. Yet the fridge still sits in the background, quietly humming his simple one note tune. Always there, never listened to. Even my breathing sounds in; a sighful exhilation suddenly matching a car speeding off.