“Chihiro” is a haunting song. It drifts in like a memory you didn’t know you still carried—low, eerie, and soaked in echoes. It makes me think of rooms. Not just places, but chambers of the mind and spirit. There are many rooms.

Go away. Go away. Go away.

When it’s over, it will be forever. And forever is a long time.

Some are dim spaces where old relationships still breathe, like faint cigarette smoke curling under a locked door. You thought they ended, but no—those moments linger, whispering from behind cracked walls.

Other rooms belong to parents, long gone, yet somehow still seated at the table. Their voices echo in cupboards, their arguments trapped in the wallpaper. And then there are the rooms where failed marriages keep going, like ghost plays on loop—actors trapped in scenes of resentment and forced smiles, never allowed to leave the stage.

People wander back into these rooms all the time—drunkenly, sleepwalking, or in the quiet of a song like this. “Chihiro” doesn’t ask permission. It opens the door, and suddenly you’re standing in a hallway of your past, with doors you were sure had been locked forever.

Maybe the Bible was right when it said, “In my Father’s house are many rooms.” But it forgot to say some are in heaven, and some are in hell—and some are both at once.