Linoleum

The tile is cool against my face. Cool, and so familiar. It isn't the first time that I've chosen to lie with my skin upon the floor. It isn't the first time that I've sunk as low as the floor. It isn't the first time that I've given up on myself in my own bathroom.

As I lie, I trace the pattern with my fingers. Beautiful red snapdragons, full of passion, lust, and pretension. How many times have I been in this spot? I can still see a pool of my tears drowning one of the snapdragons. My eyes hurt, but it isn't from the tears I've shed. My eyes are sore from looking at myself. They burn because of the person I have become.

A peace sign is painted on the bathroom door. I feel the urge to run my fingers over the creases and lines. How long ago did I paint this? Was it minutes, days, months? The blend of blue and green is faded. I must have been here a while.

Can I reach up and touch the symbol on the door? No, I am on the floor; I am in the comfort of the smooth, arrogant flowers. They are as fake as my heart, and as fragile. But I dare not leave the comfort of the familiar.

But the door. I need to touch those colors. I need to feel the vibrations in the wood and know that something is beyond it. I have a window seat. A window seat is beyond the door. The door of peace. A little further from that peace is a view.

But I am here, not there. I cannot walk through the door. Solid, it is. By nature, and the laws of Earth.

I kiss one of the snapdragons, and beg them to grow and cover me. I would very much like to be a piece of the earth. But these tile flowers do not grow, no matter how long I have been here.

I cannot stroll through the door, I repeat. But the door, the door of peace, it has something through it. A small sphere, brass. It wiggles, turns, and it can give me freedom.

Brass. Does it burn? Will it turn for me?

I give the snapdragons another look. I beg, plead with my sore eyes. These flowers, so familiar, push me. They push me with everything they are; false, pretentious, deceptive. They push and prod and poke until I am sitting upon my knees. They lift me and move me until I can touch the brass with my fingers. It does not burn. The flowers urge me on until I grasp the brass and pull myself from the reach of their red control. My feet are trodding on the flowers now, and I splash in the pool of my own tears.

I am against the door of peace. The blues and greens are not so faded from this level. I breathe deeply the smell of wood. Strength, natural strength.

My hand is still upon the brass. I hold my breath as my hand tricks the brass, and the door reveals the world beyond.

My eyes are sore, but I see. I see, I see, I see a window. And beyond that window, a sky. The sky is bright. How long was I there?

The sky outside is a conundrum. It can change infinitely, but is always there; a constant. It has always been there.

I sit upon the window seat and rest my face upon the panes. They are warm from the day that ticked on. I will stay here.