Come Into My Room, It’s Sunny Here

foto isolde

            Last summer the grass was slowly dying because of the heat. However, before that happened, I met a boy, in front of my favorite fountain. We were surrounded by green, I wore a long skirt, my naked legs imprinted by the grass. I fumbled with the small blades, the tab of a beer can, and my piercing. The sun was bright, and my lipstick was red.

Later I would write myself a postcard about this meeting. I was hopeful, summer would be pretty, it would be gentle, it would be good to me. I dreamt of a summer like a dazed pop-song, slow and sweet, simmering in the summer heat. And I guess it was a summer like that. To some degree.

I danced in the sun, relaxed in broken folding chairs, read a book about art, wrote a lot of mediocre poetry. I thought I was in love for the first time and cried my heart out on the floor of my tiny room. I decided that I wouldn’t drink anymore and just enjoy the high of five dextro-tablets while dancing to the same songs every Thursday. I didn’t see my friends as much as I would’ve liked, even though they were just a text away.

My bed was still high up in the air, my comforter a candy floss pink. I lay on my back and faced the ceiling with glow in the dark stars on it, that you can only see if you look closely because someone painted over them. It is terribly warm in my bed, with or without a second person. The sun shines through the big window, the light dances through my small room, it doesn’t care for the flimsy blinds and blankets I tried to keep it out with. I remember letting the boy in, saying something about the size of my room, talking about artists. I don’t remember how we got in my bed or why. I don’t remember if my fan was working then.

It was the summer that I tried to fix myself. Though the only real thing I fixed was my fan, and the damn thing fell apart yesterday.

I think about the emptiness of summer a lot. The sudden silence after school, and all the work. I like the quiet but after a while it makes me feel restless. After a while I don’t want to be alone anymore, but it’s like I’ve forgotten how to reach out. I am an isolated island floating in a shimmering lake. I don’t have to be, because I can easily text people ask them to come over. Then we can sit on my non-existent porch, drinking coffee and solving sudokus. Or maybe in my very existent window sill, listening to music and smoking a joint. I want to meet boys and fall in love, so we can hide between my pink sheets. I want to tell the people close to me to come into my room, it is sunny here.

Even though it isn’t even May yet.

Text: Isolde van Gog
Video: Lola van Scharrenburg, starring Isolde van Gog

 

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