Coping with death

I want to view my thoughts as separate compartmentalized beings like a hotel room, just a temporary visit that’s not really mine. Each room a different thought, feeling. I open a door and decide to be surrounded by the thoughts that accompany the room. The art on the walls are the memories. I look at each one and see my family, my friends, and my self. Each piece significant. Some separate, some together. One painting is dark. I see pain in each brush stroke. Another is a motion captured: blurry and light. There is not one painting with clear exact focus, just jumbles of people and objects and places.  This room is separate from all the other rooms. I walk into another. It’s clean and organized. The furniture is simple. A light on the desk. A bed made. The picture on the wall is a black and white photograph. Its defined and in focus. Its clear with its boundaries and borders. It’s my retreat from the other rooms. Someone educated and logical stays in this room. I am organized and planned when I’m here. I want to stay but all of my belongings are in that other room so I have to leave. My belongings are in the room with the unmade bed and the curtains are covering the light and I can barely see the art on the walls because it’s too dark. I don’t want to clean my room or organize or let go; I want to visit the rooms that are clean and pretend I live there.