The Book of Weston

I choose to live in this room, walls stained

by a pulsing jungle of images

appearing, transforming, disappearing.

in time with a soundtrack

of shifting snippets of commentary,

loud and unceasing.

In rare moments, I step outside

and find myself in the quiet world:

so simple, so boring.

Afraid I’m missing something important,

I hurry back into that deafening interior,

over and over. Even though it exhausts me,

there’s a comfort in the chaos.

I run around the room, chasing words,

fleeing images, taking them all so seriously.

The room follows me, so I’m never without it.

Often, I stand just inside

the threshold with the door open

so I can see the world but listen to the room.

Sometimes I get turned around:

I confuse the room for the world;

I forget that other people

can’t see or hear my room at all.

I think they should.

I wonder whether there’s an option

to step outside and close the door

and keep it shut until I choose

to open it for specific ideas.

I wonder, but I stay inside.

Because one of the main messages

of the room is that I need it.

And it speaks with my voice, so

it’s very convincing.

It tells me how dangerous it is out there

in the wide open world without it.

It shows me the future, many futures,

many futures that never happen.

How many broken prophecies

will it take for me to doubt the room?

What will it take for me

to shut the door?