Below is a poem/ dramatic monologue I wrote after experiencing Enda Walsh’s Rooms installation. There are three rooms: ‘Hotel room 503’, ‘Kitchen’ and ‘Girl’s Bedroom’ and you enter each room and explore all the nooks and crannies as you listen to a character’s monologue about their experience in the room.
I was inspired to write my own monologue entitled Bedroom
‘I feel trapped, yet I can leave my apartment and my bedroom whenever I want. I can go outside, I can go to the park, walk along the river, take the train and yet I feel the gravital pull back to the darkness. The darkness being enclosed in that dusty, grimey dark apartment in Queens.
I feel trapped there.
I feel trapped however I also felt trapped back home in Ireland. Trapped in a void, a mindless, endless routine and yet I feel trapped again as if I have switched one cage out for another. Both in which I have no power or rights. In one, I have no body autonomy and in the other, I am a female immigrant… the enemy in the other’s eyes. Why did I leave the cage in the first place? I should have stayed in my room in Dublin and just stayed there amongst the dread and predictability. It’s know as ‘comfort’ in some eyes, I saw it was an entrapment and somehow I long to go back there to the place I called home.
I never felt at home in this new room, this apartment, in this city. I am a stranger, a foreigner, an alien far removed from the politics and the culture here. I tried to plant my feet in the soil and grown again. To plant new seeds and root myself in a new life but all I found were dead leaves and behind them, dried earth and steel bars.
There is nothing natural or organic about this land anymore. My body aches and my feet are sore. This cage gets smaller everyday, the light gets brighter but it hurts my eyes so I retreat further into the darkness. Further back into the room that I’ve grown to both hate and find ‘comfort’ in. I find peace twisted into the solitude.
I’ve spent many hours and days in this room, looking out at the brick walls that surround me and steal my view from any trees, flowers, of any natural colours. The dull colours of grey, maroon and eggshell haunt my nightmares.
I need to escape, back to my first room, back to Dublin, back to ‘home’.
I feel the pull of the Motherland. I feel may be trudging dead earth in a foreign land but my thoughts and spirits are with her, dragging my ‘home’.