My room has always been a bit of a joke between my friends and family.
The books piled on the floor and under the bed and stacked in the closet is just so me they say. I can barely finish one without another catching my eye. My nose stuck in a book, my eyes glued to the page or screen is something so common they forget anything before it.
Clothes strewn on the bed and floor they say is just something so predictable. My style never consistent, constantly wearing something cute, and odd and different.
The pictures tacked and glued to my walls of dance shows, and camp and parties and trips and homecoming is something only I would want to remember all the good times and bad.
The crumpled paper and ever running laptop with tens of pages of word open colored with half-dazed stories and romanticized deaths is something they don’t even question anymore.
My room is my mind at play. The bed is somewhere where I sleep, somewhere where I write, somewhere where I dream. My desk is where I draw, where I do homework, organize, criticize, antagonize, where I am at work. My closet is where I imagine new outfit, where I am inspired by that shirt I bought two summers ago and never wore and the new lipstick I just bought that day.
My room has always been a bit of a joke between my friends and family because of the mess they say is so me. The rocks from my travels that line the window ledge, the ever present scent of a candle burning, the lull of various movies and music in the background is me.
They laugh and joke and tell me to clean, but I cannot. My room is my sanctuary, my heaven, my mind. They forget that the way it looks, the madness, the mayhem is just my mind swirling with the possibilities of the days to come, the nights to sleep and stay up, the lazy afternoons to watch movies and the dreadful mornings waking up mournful. This is my room. My mayhem.