My room is messy because my life is not. It’s true, I promise. My walls are spangled with pictures stuck there on a whim. I have two disorganized collages hung there as well, each covered with movie stubs and pieces of programs, each piece of paper with a story behind it. Clothes are strewn across the floor, if they’re in a drawer, I forget I have them and they never get worn. My desk is covered with random lists of things to do and sheets full of doodles, or quotations from songs I heard on the radio scribbled down in an instant. Assorted sizes of plastic balls hang from my ceiling, painted to represent the solar system, and hung around my light, ‘the sun’, in the proper order. My bookbag, still full from May, continues to sit at the foot of my always un-made bed. Candy canes from December 1996, adorn my bulletin board.
I feel at home in my room, as if I am really ‘me’, and I like it when other people explore my room (to an extent), because it says a lot about who I’d like to be. In life, everything is well thought out. Money nicely tucked away in a savings account rather than spent on a trip. A free year at home, being safe rather than leaving for college and risking failure both academically and financially. Things left unsaid when they probably shouldn’t be that way.
My outlet for all of my dreams and aspirations? My room. . . and maybe my writing. One day, though, I’m bound to clean my room.
