A safe place to sleep and work. Inside this box, the walls are grey. Some have paintings, some have posters, one has mirrors, and another has hooks for jackets. Above the bed, it is blank for now, awaiting its next contender to be hung.. The closet and the door leading to the hallway are both covered in posters, most of which are music artists. Frank Ocean, Tyler The Creator, BROCKHAMPTON. Only one is a simple skull of flowers. Surrounding the space, LEDs of all colors light up the room, like stars stuck on strips of adhesive. The bed and the wardrobe have been here since the beginning of time. There is a painted side table, three shades of blue gloss it to make a deep ocean. The shelves are filled with books, memorabilia, and objects from other worlds. The carpet is brown and soft on the feet, but when you lie down on it, it becomes coarse and hard, leaving imprints and patterns on the skin if you lay there for too long. Stuck in the dark forest of wool fibers, a different plane of existence takes place. If you run your fingers through the fibers, old dust will unravel that the vacuum cleaner could never seem to eat up.
A guitar stands at the ready with its metal holder, just at the left of the desk. It is sort of sad really, slowly piling with dust each day and awaiting for a replacement of its most delicate string. The closet, and its small, three foot space, carries the fabrics of time. Each one a different age and each one a different color. Outside appearances can be deceiving, you know? Looking down can lead to new discoveries. Reaching down under the fabrics, a strange cold extends back. Smooth glass is felt and shapes ride the lines of the fingertips. That strange cold has now turned to warmth and the glass radiates with darkened snowflakes. It is a snowglobe, of a peculiar shape and mold, filled with twilights honey comb. It is a superior sight, but will lie in the shadow of time for now. There are more important things to do.
At the center of the room, all that is left is standing before the window. The once white cloak covers the portal, waving with the air coming from the vent. Pull on the cloak and watch it cave in on itself. Now, standing on the edge of a world. Looking out of the window at night, when the dark has taken full effect and the stars are glowing, it feels as if the edge of two worlds touch. One world, filled with synthetic colors, dead wood, and processed air. It is a familiar feeling, but it holds no emotion. The atmosphere is motionless and the box becomes more clear. The other world, a dome that turned its brightness setting down, with only the light glimmer of the projector in the sky to show. The locals are dancing from the air flowing out of a big, wide vent. They sway gently and stand upright. Hair is fashioned in green dyes, with roots of brown. In between them, space is left for those that break free of their boxes. Free to explore and discover all there is beyond the walls of this furnished cage.
-Alejandro Barton-Negreiros