Head Splits

Sitting, sitting, sitting. The whole house is empty. Not a person, not a piece of furniture fills it. Except for me. I sit in the backroom, sit on the floor there.
Here I can hear everything, but see nothing except the white walls in front of me. I can see the marks that scuff up the wall, put there by a family that isn't mine. I can see the ill fitting door with the broken handle. I know there is a window behind me and when the blinds are not pulled down against the gray of the day it views a field and beyond the road, unoccupied during the afternoon. There I sit. I sit and sit. The floor's cold chill travels up through my back giving me that feverish chill from the oppressive heated air, unmoving in the stillness of the room. The heat radiates out from the radiator in the back corner of the room behind me but the heat isn't enough to warm me as it fills the upward expanses of the room. It cannot slide through the floor to the center of the room as the cold pulls the heat down into the ground, down into the first floor, out through the outer walls, the crawl space, the closet at the side of the room, the hallway that the ill fitting door leads off to, down through the first floor to the basement and then into the red clay and rock sitting under the cement. Behind my eyelids the room looks red where the light has traveled in through the blinds and blinds me by jumping off the milky bright white walls. The light cuts a bright square hole out of the floor, makes the wood glow orange as the rest of the floor is a stale brown. The light shimmers upon the dust of the room that has not yet settled upon the floor, settled around where I sit indian style. My back is curved uncomfortably as I sit, I sit...I am sitting, with elbows perched on my knees, the palms of the hands cradling the chin that I am too lazy to hold up high. Each breath makes my back ache, makes me want to shift my legs and lay there in the warmer patch of sunlight, but I am too lazy and unmotivated and the sunlight is bright on the eyes and my head is spliiting from the gathering blanketed heat. So I sit, sit there retracting my thoughts back from beyond the room into myself and into the room, replaying past eras through my mind. As I do the dust gathers on the jersey of my dress, in the folds that collapse between my knees and around where my elbows touch my knees. My thoughts then are let free and return back to my fingers and I heave a sigh. I think of the bright painted ceilings that look like the sky, a sky that is untouchable and full of airplanes and men laying upon different clouds trying to touch hands. I think of how the room would smell like paint if I painted this sky that is only past my eyes upon the ceiling of the bare room. But it is too hot, and I am sitting, sitting where the room is cold and clammy, the paint would drip and form a sky around me on the floor, the drips stretching from ceiling to floor would make bands of blue sky and airplanes that I could walk through, the bands elastic and stretching as you climbed your way through to open the window and the bands holding you back as they catch like glue upon my arms as I break away from the fresh paint smell.