I don't see

In the middle of my room there is a space that is clear, an eye around which the rest of the room, furniture, window, door and wall, square. This space is one I forget to acknowledge yet it is the one space I inhabit most. When I think of my room, the image I have is angled at certain points or from installed mental cameras that were never there, but never is this positioning central; never do I hold this space in my attention. Even when writing I have the tendency to fog out everything but the piece of carpet underneath the space or the light bulb turned on lighting the carpet uninterruptedly. In fact, if I put my pseudo quantum physics hat on, I venture that the light diving right below the light bulb has the easiest and fastest route because gravity pulls it down unobstructed, as if there was nothing below. If the light could be a man, then he would fall post-terminal velocity without a parachute but with the weight of a growing number of men on his back, pushing him down towards the carpet until he collapses into the mass. I would never know if he would get there alive, that one needle of man in a stack of weaving. And the space he would occupy, for the briefest of exercises, would go unnoticed.