A Room Of One's Own

by John Lunney

The sun gently slanted in the window. It struck the wall. It bounced off the circular mirror with the wooden border and glared on the ceiling.

The man, who was asleep, rolls over. He gazes up at the ceiling. It is a sky-blue, but not as blue as the sky outside. Tiny pricks of white pick out the stars. The reflection from the circular mirror is a celestial globe, gently rolling across the sky. The constellations whirl above him, seen through his bleary eyes. As the stars dance around him, he does not know where he is. He blinks once, twice, and the stars swim into focus, such as it is.

The linen bed-sheet feels crisp against his skin. As he lies on his back, looking at the ceiling of stars, he hears a lapping sound. The sea, he presumes. He didn't see it the night before. Consciousness washes over him like gentle waves. With effort, he raises his arm, and looks at his watch. Squinting, he can just make out the square digits. He lets his arm drop, but leaves it outside the quilt. A gentle sea-breeze caresses it. It is still early. And he is still tired. He ponders going back to sleep again, but feels guilty about doing so. Swinging his legs out from under the continental quilt, he carefully sits up. The soles of his feet brush something soft and warm. He shifts his weight forward, and sinks into the sheep-skin rug. The wool curls between his toes, the silky material warm from lying in the sun.

He reaches out his left-hand and picks up his glasses. Putting them on, suddenly everything becomes clear.

He walks unsteadily over to the window. The light breeze strips away the curtains of sleep and he becomes more aware of what is around him. The bed is to his left, and the desk to his right. Papers lie untidily round a type-writer. The continental quilt on his bed is ruffled up like crepe paper. Its creamy white blends into the wall, with no horizon, Like snowy mountains racing towards a white sky, the only visible demarcation is the gentle shadow of each peak, lying in each of the troughs.

The floor is cool marble, pleasant to the touch, but a little shocking against warm feet. In places blue and green waves swirl round crests of white lightning but in others there are calm pools of deep blue, rimmed with a gentle hint of green. As the sun-light dances on the quartz imperfections, the marble seems to move, to flow like a deep sea.

A glass bottle is smashed on the floor, sparkling fragments of glass glisten on the marble. A little boat sits on the floor, as if it were meant to be there. The leg of the desk stands beside it.

He crosses the floor slowly. As he approaches the window, the breeze blows his hair back. The curtains flap in the wind, pulling at their bands. The bay window is pushed all the way up. He looks out the window.

The sky is a light shade of blue. Three small clouds sit gently astride the horizon. A jet-stream slices the sky in two. A sea-gull soars above the waves. He hears the sound of other sea-gulls. A tiny boat floats on the horizon, just out of reach. The water is a beautiful azure. Circular pools of different colours speckle the water. It looks as if it is raining colour.

He has a room all of his own, no-one to bother him, as he works. It's very important work. And in such beautiful surroundings.

Could this be paradise?

He can imagine nothing more beautiful than the idyllic view before him. No painter could portray such beauty on mere paper nor any poet do it justice in verse.

The sun sparkles on the water. It creates a path towards the horizon, off the edge of the world. What lies beyond what the eye can see? He does not know, cannot remember, will not remember. The island is his home: or his prison? A lonely prison. There is no-one else on the island.

No, not paradise.