The air thickens, wet hot humidity venturing out from its crevice to fill the vacant space. It does not notice the flesh or dry eyes. It does not notice the panting or salty perspiration. This room’s occupant is not its keeper, but merely the nuisance unmoving and unwilling enough to fill the space.
Sunlight filters through the window, the warmth, the heat left on the outer surface of the pane. It is memories that fill this room, remorse that charges the air with electricity and the suffocating remnants of arguments and dreamless slumber, when waking was the satisfaction and not its lack.
It is determination that keeps the air from flowing, that keeps the comfort at bay beyond the door. In discomfort there is conscience, and in conscience there is turbulence. And that is the satisfaction, but in satisfaction the anguish is no less. The fiery liquids do little to quench the thirst for redemption, hindering all motives that would encourage the steps towards forgiveness and restoration
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