A Room With Stuff

It came as a sudden realization the kind of things I pile up in those four walls I've come to call my own.
It's just a room filled with stuff.
Some days, meaningless.
Some days, so heavy, absurdly drenched in value.
It has a regular bed with regular sheets (which are never in their right place) and a regular, humble pillow with a regular, humble pillowcase.
A modest, white wooden closet with perhaps too much space for the clothes I carry around.
There's also a dusty carpet in all its grayness ridden with the smell of troubled sleep.
And coffee.
And old books lying on the floor.
There are a lot of empty spaces to fill.
The nights come and go and the moonlight sometimes sneaks through the blinds,
From the lonely window up to the corner where I lie down and close my eyes.
The same corner where Sophie and I used to close our eyes at the same time,
where we would rehearse old crimes,
where we would complete beautiful circles.
And then there's this cardboard box loaded with stupid souvenirs
Like photographs with letters written in the back, and chess badges, and old concert tickets.
A broken camcorder and a few casettes with images of a younger me.
I've locked them all away.
I've sealed them in that forbidden container.
And turned off the lights.
And tried to get some rest.
But I can't seem to understand why this place resonates with so much.
And every breeze feels like a ghost coming back to haunt this memory-mined territory.
Why, if at the end of the day,
it's just a room with stuff.