At some point in my life I have been in every single one of the spaces that exist in my room. A long-exposure camera quietly watching in a corner for twelve years would have captured a semi-transparent tea-coloured blur of my legs and arms and head and clothes filling every bit of space that my human body could possibly occupy in that room. I’ve never been on the ceiling, and I rarely have any presence in the space that exists above where my head is when my feet are on the floor, except when I’ve stood up on my bed. In that sense, the long-exposed photo would reveal a writhing stillness of my limbs and intermittent faces (when I looked at the camera) which flooded most of the room, with a small atmosphere of unchanging ceiling and upper wall, its constancy broken only occasionally by my head, rising up for air into that space, so seldom that it would barely leave an imprint on the film, but it would be there, almost as transparent as nothing, but not nothing.
This piece was first published in Playhouse64 Issue #1.