How to Build a Universe in a Room
Jack wakes up, and the sun is already there, stretching its golden fingers through the single skylight above. He greets the wardrobe like an old friend, whispers a secret to the bed, and waves at the television screen as if it might wave back. To him, these aren’t just objects; they are sentient, breathing, shimmering with possibility. They are not things in a room. They are the Room.
For Jack, Room—the film directed by Lenny Abrahamson and based on Emma Donoghue’s novel—isn’t a cage. It is a spaceship hurtling through the cosmos. It is a fortress where knights duel for honor. It is an endless ocean, where the floor is lava (and you’d better jump to the bed before it’s too late!). The walls aren’t walls at all; they are portals, transforming at his command. He doesn’t see limits. He sees the edge of the known universe, daring him to dream beyond it.
The table is a towering mountain where explorers brave the treacherous climb. The wardrobe is Narnia, a doorway to another world where secret creatures lurk in the shadows, waiting to share their magic. The bathtub is an enchanted lagoon where mermaids might rise from the depths if only you listen closely. Even the creaky floorboards hold secrets—step on the wrong one, and you might plummet into a bottomless abyss, or worse, wake the sleeping dragon beneath.
Every object is alive. Every corner holds a story. And in Jack’s mind, the Room isn’t small at all—it is vast, infinite, bigger than the whole world.
And maybe—just maybe—he’s right.
We, the so-called adults, tend to see small spaces as restrictive. A cramped studio apartment, a tiny bedroom, a windowless office—traps, all of them. We sigh at low ceilings and grumble at narrow hallways. But what if we’re missing the magic entirely? What if constraints aren’t barriers but catalysts? What if, instead of shutting us in, they’re inviting us to push the boundaries of our imagination?
The Alchemy of Imagination
Jack’s world is a masterclass in making something out of nothing. And he’s not alone. History is littered with creatives who took their limitations and spun them into gold.
Ever noticed how some of the world’s greatest works of art came from tiny rooms, within narrow city blocks, under the weight of immense restrictions? Da Vinci, cooped up in a small workshop, sketched flying machines. Van Gogh, in the confines of an asylum, painted Starry Night. J.K. Rowling, crammed into a café, conjured up a boy wizard who would redefine childhoods across the globe. Architects, too, have long played this game, turning the smallest of footprints into architectural symphonies.
Take Tokyo’s capsule hotels—barely big enough to stretch your arms, yet efficient, comfortable, even futuristic. Or the medieval walled cities of Europe, where every inch was carefully planned, every narrow alley bursting with history and function. Architects don’t curse limitations; they embrace them. They carve, mold, and refine. They turn scarcity into brilliance.
Jack’s Room, then, is a kind of blueprint. A reminder that even the smallest space can hold infinite stories—if we let it.
The Room in Our Minds
But let’s take this one step further. What if Room isn’t just a place but a state of being? A metaphor for every creative soul grappling with the edges of their own imagination?
Jack doesn’t just endure his space; he transforms it. He paints adventures onto blank walls, breathes life into inanimate objects, and builds entire universes out of shadows and whispers. His world is tiny yet limitless. And isn’t that the very essence of creativity? The ability to take the ordinary and make it extraordinary?
And then—one day—the door opens. Jack steps outside for the first time, and the world is vast. Overwhelming. Infinite. And for the first time, he feels small.
We spend our lives chasing freedom, believing that more space, more choices, more everything will make us limitless. But maybe Jack teaches us the opposite. That too much space can be just as paralyzing as too little. That true creativity thrives not in infinite possibility but in the beautiful tension between freedom and constraint. A writer needs the edge of the page. A painter needs the frame of a canvas. An architect needs the limitations of a site. Jack’s Room gave him a world because it gave him something to push against, to shape, to define. Without walls, there is no room to dream.
So maybe it’s time to rethink small spaces. Maybe that tiny apartment, that snug reading nook, that impossibly narrow balcony isn’t a limitation at all—it’s an invitation. A stage for something greater. Because imagination isn’t measured in square footage. It’s measured in the depth of the stories we tell within it.
Jack understood that. Do we?
