Sitting Room

By Esha Srivastava

From the outside in, you’d find, 
A tiny box of epic proportions; veneered walls, floor lined with an ornate rug.
Its merlot red-Prussian blue motifs, merging and diverging endlessly.
Disappearing seamlessly towards edges that meet the horizon.
The insides, pulsating with a rhythm intentionally off-beat.
A menagerie of colours flowing together.
Fuchsia pink dissolving into iris purple, emerging into chartreuse green.
The chandeliers illuminating this palace of illusions; a neon haven for all things corporeal.

From the inside out, you’d see,
A vast expanse of nothingness. 
Light blindingly bright, sealed with the sound of silence. 
In the distance, a hint of turquoise floating amidst the white.
The purest of flames, flaring, its head swaying and undulating, as if to entice.
A pleasing obverse of ignis fatuus; eternally exuberant.
The enchanting absence of human lust, a self-fulfilling prophecy.
This paradise of illusions, a perfectly preserved, uncontaminated utopia.

An escape to be found in either direction, both to the left and the right.
A purpose to be found in either room, whilst peering into the other with wild desire.
Virginal white or taffy pink, all to converge, then submerge into the Stygian shadow. 
One that echoes hauntingly. 

It’s all the same.
It’s all the same.