sometimes i sit in a room and look up and think about how everyone who is important to us can fit in a room. and i wonder how all of them became important to us and how they all fit here. people can be contained: within us, within four walls and a low ceiling; within a space we made worth saving. a safe space, made sanctuary.
we are gathered on the couch in my apartment; crowded around a high table in the back of a bar; waiting in a car at the arrivals terminal. we are in a room together and the earth is rotating about its tilted axis, and we revolve around each other in this time-space we all happen to share. some cosmic overlap, and we all became important to one another.
a place holds people, orbiting in proximity. i don’t think the actual room matters. it can be any room, any size, any shape. it is a corporeal reality that asserts certainty. but what’s scary is that we can situation everyone inside—everyone, count them off, do roll call—close the door, and then anything goes. we eat dinner or share bad dreams, we make life plans or divulge little secrets.
anything can happen in the room. by that logic, anything can happen to the room. the room has a door and that door can be opened: someone leaves. the room burns down. the room never earned its certifications and the ceiling collapses, a flimsy thing. the room becomes a stage trick, and the walls fall down to reveal a laughing audience.
still, we fill our rooms with people. and still, we walk into the rooms of others. sometimes, isn’t it simply and stupidly nice to share space at the same time?