A room

It's yellow. But not like in Vista. This is a blander sort of yellow. Like if you added grey paint to a pot of bright yellow paint and stirred it, you'd get this yellow. Like a bowl of mashed bananas left to oxidize in a room.

An uncomforting sort of yellow. A lazy yellow. A yellow that yawns and says "Bleh" before closing its eyes and letting you go on with whatever you were doing.

Indifference.

So it is in this room of lazy yellow that I am in right now. Have been in here for a good part of my childhood and teenage life. It's been used so much it looks almost like a storeroom. Stacks of old game CDs lay around. Some lay scattered across the desks and some are chucked away hiding. Laying there like it was lazy. Like a retired old game taking a rest. Used to being ignored. It's how most the games here end up.

CA: Is this your storeroom?
Me: No, pretty, it's the place I spend most of my fun times in.

At least I thought I did.

Now the air here is old. The door to the outside balcony is never opened. The windows are shut 24/7. The wind never blows in. The only air replacement it gets is through a few slits in the wall which opens into the main stairway. So it's all musty in here. Thick air surrouding you, laying heavy upon you like it's trying to suffocate you. Choke you up so you had to leave and do something else somewhere else in the house and you will once you can't stand it.

The sounds, drone of the PC, hum of the aircon up above. Random splatters of raindrops on the roof tiles. From elsewhere, downstairs, the mumble of the TV gets through. A random line uttered by somebody. Random rustling of plastic bags by somebody cleaning up. Like another world. All outside. Never in here. Maybe that's why this place has grown so old. Like it was time it went to sleep and never wake up for very long. Actually never wake at all.

Old. White desks turned cream-coloured and splotched with dirt and bits of crisps other people have brought in. The old black chair staring at you. Tufts of white fibre poking out through tears in the black leather. 'Hello. I was something once. Now I've been demoted to staring at you blog. Nice to meet you.'

Nice to meet you too. And then return to your work.

Old brown chairs. Still sturdy. Yellow foam peeking out where the fabric has torn. Torn. They're all torn. After awhile, they all tear. It can't be helped. Noone cares anymore. Just like when the hardware doesn't work anymore. It just gets chucked aside. Sometimes they spoil and noone knows because noone cares anymore.

(Hum of the aircon. Splattered raindrops upon the tiling.)

And if they did care, this might be a brighter room. Right now, it's a very claustrophobic place to be in. And as I type this out, the air weighs heavy upon my lungs. My eyes would like less contrast from staring into the bright monitor and then into the dim surroundings. The afternoon in here is lifeless. Dead. Foreboding. 'Go elsewhere or we'll suck the life out of you.'

Gladly, monsieur.