My room is black.

It’s black like the bottomless pit we stared into on some childhood trek. It’s dark like the ocean, in the sliver of time between sunset and the street lights coming on.

The walls are warm and dusty. The bed is full of the remnants of bad dreams. It’s all pretentious but real at the same time. The cupboards are all the same colour and the pillowcases smell of mothballs. The wooden cupboard has all my books peeking out through the glass.

Somewhere, under the pillows, my phone stays hidden, quivering with the suspense of an SMS from someone who remembers me but has the good sense to not call.

The black rooms moves swiftly around me. It’s like being inside a washing machine – with the swirling water and the detergent. The detergent is making my eyes water.

My room wasn’t always black. Last week, it was a lemon yellow. Black is definitely preferred. It gives me more space to think, in the make believe sleepy darkness.