Darkened walls trimmed in rich wood. Walls hidden behind scores of books.
I see a library, a study, that is called mine. Where I enter and become rhythm. A harmony gliding into an existed melody. The melody stays constant, though the harmony alters from time to time. Still fitting, somehow, into the measures making whole.
I don’t often see pictures of where I want to be. The dedicated attention span lining my mind is limited in its durations, leaving little allowances for sustained focus on things such as long-term goals, drawn out stories lacking direction or multi-stepped plans. Yet it does not stop me from devoting overindulgent amounts of time obsessing over subtext in relationships, perceived opinions of others or harping on self-contained insufficiencies.
What I do know, is a room, a space such as invisioned, is repose for a soul like mine.
And repose is a goal continuously sought for this traveler.