A Room Of One’s Own Is Not Always Enough

I have a spacious room with a sturdy table with five chairs from which I can write from. My room is littered with notebooks from which I rip out and discard pages with unsteady prose. Within these four walls, the bustle from the noisy Cape Town streets cannot be heard.

Virginia Woolf said that every woman who aspires to write needs her own room. A room which she can claim her own. One in which the prejudices of the real world cannot creep in.

As I said, I got such a room, a room with a table, a chair, a view any writer would dream of and most importantly silence. But there is one problem.

Mystical window by Lorenzo Cuppini

There is no room in my mind for romantic structures. My mind can only accommodate sentences with purpose –

‘dear ms so and so, please find the attached ‘,
‘due to structural changes’
or
‘we can therefore irrevocably conclude that this project is not sustainable ‘.

Such sentences weighty with intent leave no room for feathery words that have the liberty to explore Milan Kundera’s unbearable lightness of being.

I have no room to let these words breathe air. So they remain half developed deities roaming the walls of my subconscious, whispering when they glimpse a space to sneak through. Their shallow groans haunt me. I need to exorcise them. Yet I have no room for such futile exercises.

And so my stories remain unwritten.

Image source

Image by Lorenzo Cuppini

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