Mental Real Estate

My mind is like a towering apartment complex.

It's this tall, futuristic sky scraper that engineers would love to build and something which sociologists and psychologists would love to study, thinking that this contained community will drive it's residents nuts.

There's a mall in one floor, various restaurants, a couple of entertainment centers, maybe a botique, a salon, and a health clinic, a gym, and a spa that I never go to.

And right above, starting on the 50th floor, are the residential apartments.

And on the 75th floor, you have my space, where I rent all the rooms but only live in a few of them.

There's a two bedroom, a one bedroom, a studio type, a loft, and a penthouse. All other rooms are empty. I don't go there. I have a schematic, I have a sketch of what they are, how they look like, but I don't live there.

Maybe one day, when I need a new space, i'll move in. I'll think about what to do then.

Since there's just one me, moving from room to room, looking at each place, wondering where to live next.

The One bedroom country style, the chic art deco style loft, the family oriented four bedroom with the 2.5 bath, sunken living room and rec room, or the hovel studio type where I just have a table, a chair, and a bowl of mangoes, a pitcher of water and a laptop computer with cookie crumbs edging into the keyboard.

The walls are white, and all lighting is provided by this black lamp. It looks like any black lamp you see in a store. It's cheap and it's easily replacable.

That's the plce i'm thinking of moving into for a awhile.

Just get my keys and leave the two bedroom. With the yellow walls and the shabby chic furniture. Leave the Paulo Coehllo book unread, the alternative rock on it's CD cases, and listen to the sound of creaky pipes and electricity in my studio apartment.

Where the walls are blank except for the images projected by my troubled imagination.