Darkroom

I currently live in a dark bedroom in Germany, which is depressing and restricting.  Two windows occupy the east-facing wall of the room.  This is a good way to wake me up for work in the morning.  Mind you, that this is the only positive aspect of the room.  During the rest of the day, the sunlight is filtered with perennially closed IKEA blinds, which protest being drawn.  On the south end, you would find my bed, and opposite of that, a sofa.  In the middle of all of this, there is a luminous, green plant that casts a gloomy shade over the whole square footage.  

My time is spent looking at my computer on my couch's foot rest and deciding when exactly I will start doing something productive, and the when it is decided, I imagine the perfect space.  The perfect space would include a chair and a desk, on which I would set my computer or notebook.  The chair-and-desk combination would be ergonomically correct, and I would definitely be able to turn into a free-thinking, free-wheeling, free-moving writer.  The transformation would result from the architecture of the place. 

My back would not be hunched over the computer screen - as it is now - and I would not be inclined to writing like J.D. Salinger or the guy who wrote A Staggering Work of Heartbreaking Genius - who, incidentally, clearly copied the writing style of J.D. Salinger.  He may have copied that of Jack Kerouac, but I haven't yet been schooled on this subject.  My writing would be drinkable prose, like that of the the travel writer who often writes for a Floridian publication and an article of whose I had once read in the Star Tribune.  

Most people think darkrooms as places where real images of people can be realized through an art that struggles to be kept alive.  My dark room is a place where the art of writing is basically dead.  And where neck and back problems are developed.

Photo of P. Cruz from VCB, courtesy of arthouse.ru