Honestly I cannot begin to tell you how much time I have spent in my room. My room, the one part of the house filled with valuables, junk, and valuable junk. Both my parents wonder how I survive in a place so littered and scattered with lengths of computer wires, last year's old school assignments, and wrinkled teenage girl clothes strewn about. It's been that way ever since I moved into my room about two years ago, when I first started the 7th grade.
It just so happened that the room I was allowed to move into was a cramped, enclosed cardboard box. Okay, so it wasn't that extreme. Originally the room was used as an office for my Goong Goong (grandpa), since he lives with us. Most people would think something along the lines of, "What? For real now? You want me to live and sleep in there?" I too would be one of these people, if not the fact that I wanted so badly not to share a place with my younger brother. Getting my own room meant my first step of independence, a taste of growing up. There were boxes stacked against the windows added to a distinct musty smell I just couldn't. Dust and cobwebs happily multiplied, not only in the corners and small openings but created an even blanket over the stacked papers and piled boxes. One false move, and I could accidentally lean on a thin layer of dust bunnies causing a million specks of it to fly up to my face. Nasty.
After a month of cleaning and rearranging, my room consisted of a bed, desk, drawer, closet, and several of my Goong Goong's cardboard filing boxes (stacked in the corner). Dust was no longer welcome in my place. Aside from some stray storage boxes, old people clothes, and canned goods in the closet, the room was all mine! Who cared if the room still contained the musty humid feeling? So what if the room was a little cramped? I sure didn't. It was mine, my room to keep.
Which brings us to the present day.
Today, even as I am writing this, my room isn't perfect. It's not my favorite place to be, on account on how messes seem to just keep "growing" on my desk, floor, and in my dresser. Although I keep complaining about how all my belongings are mixed up with my "stuff" and my "things", it is definitely somewhere I go often. Coming to my room, for me, is for much more than just getting a good night’s sleep, or running into grab my school books.
In my room, I am in full control. Not only about what goes on inside my bedroom, but also what goes on inside of me. I can be myself. I am myself in my room. If someone was to take a peek in, what they saw would be a scrapbook of my life- "Here and Now." Pictures fill the walls, right underneath the smooth wooden window still. Memos, drawing, “Calvin & Hobbes” comics, and newspaper articles randomly pinned up to my faded green bulletin board. All this reflects who I am. What may seem like trash, are the very object that capture my memories, thoughts, or feelings.
In my bedroom, is where I do some of my best thinking. The environment is just right to inspire me with new creative ideas. Walking into my room, dodging the various items on the floor, inhaling the scent of my flowery-citrus body mist, are some parts that help me to create new views on a subject. Sometimes being in my room means to do nothing but to lie down and listen to music for a while.
Even though I may not say much about how I am feeling, someone would probably be able to see it through the actions and events that go on, at times, in my room. I am myself in my room, and no one can stop me. I am free to feel my true emotions toward anything, and I will share them with the world, if I choose.
