The room. The room in my house. The room that held all that I cherished and loved. The room where I felt more myself than anywhere else. That room hidden so deep inside I forgot it was there.
For many years, I worked hard to fill the rest of my house. I walked through life picking up things that others said were good and true. I collected those things and adorned my house with them. I thought they made me who I am. I thought they were what was true and beautiful about me.
Visitors felt welcome in my home. It was filled with the things that everyone loved. I walked through that house day after day proud of everything I’d collected. I was proud to have created a place that others loved. Yet, deep inside something was missing. That love and adoration others had for my house was missing from my heart. Each time that empty feeling came, I looked around to find something new, something others admired, and added it to my house.
One day I was walking through the kitchen. Suddenly, my heart panged in a way that was familiar yet new with a longing for something forgotten and true. I stopped for a moment and grasped for something, but all I could find were the things I collected. That room was hidden too deep to be seen. But somehow, my heart remembered it – or at least the feeling it brought. And so, I set off searching for that room, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. Maybe I imagined it? Or maybe I buried it beneath all the things I collected over the years. Now that I remembered the room and the feeling that came with it, I couldn’t give up so easily. I needed to continue the search. And so, one by one, I began to take down the collection of things that were never really mine in the hopes that someday, I would find that room.