The floor.

White daylight makes the room feel less solid than it really is. It’s brittle outside, a snappy weekday afternoon that brings activity to mind. It’s the kind of afternoon where, in a previous life, I’d have been traveling, out and about, speaking to people, listening to people, chilly and busy. Today I’m warm and so not busy that the idea I’ve just had is slowly turning from a fantastical fancy to reality.

I’ve lived in this house for several years. It’s an area that’s seen my career start, blossom and fall flat. It’s seen a couple of friends who I’ve had sex with and one relationship. I’ve lived in it, and I’ve stepped all over the floor – in joy, sadness, and more frequently, happy apathy. Sometimes I’ve fucked on it, and there are some times I remember where I’ve spread out on it with my brain fuddled on enough illegal substances to kill a mouse. In short, what I’m saying is that it’s seen the average goings-on of a fast-approaching-thirty year old. Yet, an hour ago, while I was sitting on the sofa sniffing the odourless cold air that I’ve let draught through the large windows, I felt an odd sadness as I looked at the floor – really studied the floor for the first time.

I’ve always had an odd way of thinking that I suspect is actually totally normal, it’s just that nobody has ever admitted it to anybody else because they’re too embarrassed, so it has become this worldwide shared outlook that unities us all but goes unspoken. It’s very simple: giving objects human emotions. I’m sure there’s a word to describe that, but words aren’t my strong point and it goes a bit further than that anyway. Here’s an example: if I’m at a shop and somebody points out a dress that I immediately hate and launch into why this is so, I’ll feel sorry for it. It hangs there on its rack with its proud detailing and forlorn zip and I hate myself for being cruel and so I touch it, perhaps fondle it and so hopefully get across the message that I’m really sorry.

The floor is only brown wood with a lot of stains and dents in it, but I get the feeling that it’s happy in its function – it enjoys being stepped on. The smooth caress of the heel and toe fulfils its every want. I realise that it has an itch that it cannot possibly scratch, for there are well-worn pathways across the floor, leading in and out, to the computer, the windows, the sofa and the television stand, but I rarely stand anywhere else. Poor floor.

Motivated, I stand up and try walking along a few unfamiliar pathways. I walk around the back of the sofa, to the far wall, and edge along it, towards one of the windows. I stub my door on the skirting board and swear. Hopping, I jolt over to the television stand, but approach it from the side rather than the front. The floor creaks – possibly with pleasure. My living room has turned into another place to explore. Shadows cast by overhead beams and lampshade stalks that I’ve traced around with my mind’s eye and fingers and tongue a thousand times in limbo become new shapes, even the sound of the passing traffic has taken on a different composition.

Half an hour later I’ve managed to shove and pull all of the furniture and assorted tat that I must throw away into the narrow hallway. Cables that fed into the television curl on the floor like forgotten tails. Small ridges of dust have gathered in rows across the floor, like mountain ranges on the surface of a tiny world. I start at the doorframe, and begin to walk around the perimeter, taking care not to stub my toe again. Once I’m back at the doorway, I carefully side step to the left, and begin my route once more. I’ve taken on the dance steps of a burned spaceship subject to a decaying orbit around a war-torn planet. It’s going to take a while, but eventually I will have stepped on every single possible square inch of floor in this room, and I reckon that repeating the process in every other room in the house will fill up the rest of my week.

As I tightrope walk across my floor, taking care to exert the same amount of pressure in my current footstep as the one before it, I wonder how I’ll fill the time in the following week. There must be something else to do.