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Literary lobotomy

Little room

The following was my submission for a short writing contest. I did not win. I did not expect to win. I could say that it is because I’m a loser and losers only know how to further lose, but I don’t want to seem like I’m fishing for sympathy or reactionary compliments. Instead, I post it here as a reminder that I can always do better. In ten, twenty, thirty years when I’m a shamble of the shambles I am now, I’ll look back and say hey maybe it wasn’t so bad after all and those critics didn’t know hoopla from poopla and I should start writing again and did you want to read this hunny? And maybe she’ll be watching TV – you know, one of those new ocular wizard thingamabobbers with their virtual reality and pulse laser technology and quantum coupling – and she’ll unplug, and say what dear? And I’ll say never mind; I know she likes watching the episodes of space pilots, and I’ll just keep eating, or shitting, or doing whatever I do when I’m older, and the day will pass away just like that.

Until then, all I can do is write the time away. That way, I’ll have to endeavour through a million of words before I find this post again.


A knowing hand guides me as I squirm. It points. “This,” the voice booms from the mountain it inhabits, “This is your room.” Before I know it, days and nights pass with the ease of a light switch, and slowly, surely, this place becomes my own.

Here, I grow. I breathe. I do. I feel. And I live. In between, a lifetime stretches itself out in a collection of plastic trophies, worn-out crayons, and outdated band photos. With muddy knees and miscellaneous scabs, with school crushes and lifelong sweethearts, with friends long forgotten and new ones being remembered, I learn the edges of the universe that I myself have made.

Every day, this place changes. Corners tickle my fingertips differently. Windows creak a new song of escape. And time ticks and it tocks, and the little room moves as I move.

It dances daily.

Yet it is not just a room. It is a space messy with dirty clothes, half-open books, and illegible pen etchings. It is four walls that have housed my laughter and cries, my successes and failures. It is my home. It is me. And I have left nothing untouched for it is mine.

About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters. Follow my wordpress or my IG (@_kenkan)


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