It’s tight, small, and feels like there are no windows or doors, and the light switch appears to be broken. I flipped it one way and the next, but it offered no resistance and made no sounds. The ceiling above me, the wall to the left of me, and another to the right feel course, as though covered in self-adhering sand paper squares, each spaced apart by a few inches, or centimeters. The floor, moist and slick, seems to prevent any semblance of balance, as though someone had sprayed a fine mist of oil over it’s surface. As I stand, I slip and fall, and I am reminded of why I am in this little room. The thoughts of the darkness and emptiness creep in once again, swirling around my cowering shape in the corner of this confining cube. I am trapped. Unable to see, I have no idea if there is anything else in the room. Hours and hours of searching have led me across every inch of this place and yet even though I’ve discovered a window, it has been covered with a thick rubbery substance, almost as though someone has painted multiple coats of black paint over and over again. It is strong, and I am unable to dig through. I find one small pixel of light shining through the surface, evidence of hope in a universe where hope seems scarce. Grooves on the border of each wall stretch the length of each of the 6 sides only an inch from the corners. I fall asleep.
The room has changed size. It appears to be alive. The walls are closer than they were before. The window is smaller. My upper body has been scraped raw in the night from where I had been leaning. There is no room in this living, breathing room anymore and I want out.
The rest? They’re all locked up in their own little box with their own past experiences and they seem overshadowed by the familiarity that is just on the other side of that little pixel of light. How can something that feels so right one day feel so wrong the next? Waking up day after day in this abrasive cube is just as comforting as it is terrifying.