That no-one else saw it never became the hindrance she expected. She expected everything: the drugs, the insanity, the lies, the attention, but nothing materialised; no-one asked, no-one cared. There was this beautiful room that took on colours on contact, a room whose walls breathed with her, a room that she could live in, but no-one else got it.
When she brushed against a wall her clothes would leave a smear, and be smeared in return. When she took a breath the top of the wall breathed with her, wiping away to nothingness, just the tiniest hint of non replicating her shallow, unassuming breaths. When she sat down she ignored the wet paint sign, but exact revenge was meted out to the chair or floor. When she gasped, she sucked up a proportion of the walls; her low walls sprang back when she let go of her wonder. She would fill her lungs with her room as much as possible, all gone, finished, appreciate no need to close her eyes, sit, contend, observe, beat, hold. Hold for two more seconds: one, two. Two more: one two. Don't become sullen and expecting, three seconds: onetwothree. She'd swallow the base of her tongue and her lungs, then stop. The hint of a breath through the nose to break the seal and the non walls would wash the ends of her toes; the blow, the grow, settling down to shallow, flickering movement.
She'd lie on a cushion, leaving her face, replacing it with the blue... no, not replace, mix. Compromising her reclining position, sharing every rubbed forehead, hair stroke, lip lick, picked nose, picked ear, picked teeth. She and her dirt fell to the floor, finely they sat, absorbed, copied, were copied from. Wiping would leave everything with blue and white streaks. It sat, it blew, it mixed, collided, shared colours; falling it left the most beautiful multicoloured specks, just a suggestion of a mongrel perfection touching everything. Because the shoots of the walls weren't there all the time they received half the attention of the equally unreachable echelons with their specks and spiders. When she held her breath like the few who know, a definite tide mark told what had been going on - a beautiful two pixel feathered tide mark, but a knowing one.
Music offered nothing, speech offered nothing, nor taste and smell. Touch only offered in its visual sense. Sunlight would make everything whiter, but could never be fleetingly fickle. A new object would immediately spread itself into the room, becoming - in a zenner than thou sense - one with everything. Television became everything, a shotgun blast of purple and everything that needed a strong fan to come into its own. In one moment it became garish - not the fault of television, which was as wonderful as the dust. In another moment it became a grey sludge, it had all mixed too much. Hints of colour could be achieved with a new experience, before they became as grey. Sunlight would brighten, but now became as temporary as it once wasn't.
If she hadn't been in the room, if the room wasn't used, if nothing had ever entered it, if she'd never been a part of it, then, well it'd be just a room. She didn't overuse it, she couldn't. It was going to be good, (be unappreciated elsewhere), be great, grate, be gone. It was.