At a glance, the bedroom is a mix of genders, interests, passions – it is a difference of identities. Identities that spark off each other, clash at times, but bond nevertheless. These identities have imprinted themselves on the blank walls, draped over the furniture, scattered themselves on the floor, and are projected out of the window.
The first identity is that of a carefree spirit: clothes are haphazardly scattered across their side of the bed; the bedside table is littered with writing materials, white paper, pencil shavings, coins, plasters and glinting jewellery; their photos have been randomly tacked up on the hard white walls telling of their strong grip on their memories and the past; various paintings show their appreciation for the arts; cupboard – bursting at the hinges; and fluffy slippers and a hot water bottle tell of the love of warmth and comfort.
The other identity differs to the first in numerous, various, incredulous ways: shoes line the walls like soldiers; a neat bedside table with only a book, a lamp and an alarm clock; folders of forms and documents are stacked neatly on the shelf; three guitars lean casually in the corner propped up by a large amplifier, and some music posters hung carefully above, which show of this identities love for music; and their cupboard – separated into casual wear on the left side, and smart work clothing on the right.
The bed – one pillow claimed by each identity, the sharing of the duvet, and the togetherness of dreamy sleep.
Sitting on my bed, looking out the window, I see the middle-aged man walking about his living room and into the kitchen. I often see him and his wife going about their daily business. Perhaps he has his own business, works from home, eats cereal from the packet when his wife is not home, sits at his computer – making is fortune? Perhaps he goes fishing or hunting? Or gambles while his wife is out shopping with the money he has made, or while she’s cooking tea as she does every night? The wife possibly dabbles in gardening, just to keep up appearances with the neighbours, judging by the neat plants lining the window sills. They both take care of how they are perceived, and of their personal facades – he drives a Landrover, and she, a convertible Mercedes.
And I wonder – if I have these preconceived perceptions about them, what must they think of me?
Trees sway in the gentle breath of the wind.
Grass glints with memory of rain, but with the promise of sun.
Snowdrops turn their faces to the sun, forgotten warmth.
Birds converse on the quivering branches.
Winter releases its cold grip.