Close your eyes as someone reads this to you. I am going to describe a room in my house, as did Anne Frank in the “Secret Annexe.” Imagine as I go along. I want you to see in your head what I see. I want you to understand why I see things the way I do. My brief description will go beyond a thought or even appearance, but at the end, I want you to understand.
The sun is shining newly, brightly, and energetically. The birds are chirping their sweet songs. I walk from the street down the grass covered sidewalk approximately three yards. Next, I walk up the three steps, but carefully; they’re steep and can be slippery. Then, I open the door as I step up. Now this is home.
To the right is my living room covered wall in and wall out with furniture. Where I stand as I walk in the door is in the dining room. As I walk to my left, I pass through my kitchen. Then, I head down the hallway, passing the baby’s room, the furnace, and the bathroom all on the right hand side. Finally, I slide open my accordion appearing door and enter my room.
I take about two steps, and then jump on my bed carelessly to the right in gratefulness to be able to relax. I look up to think, and I stare at the off white colored ceiling. It appears as if at some point there were leaks; it has water damage. My staring at the ceiling makes me get into to a deep thought and concentration. Then, I begin to look around the room, looking for answers to my thoughts and dreams. Looking to the left is just a plain wall of a fair colored wood paneling with two mirrors. So, I sit up facing the wall to the left to look at myself in the mirrors, hoping for answers and wishing that all of my flaws were flawless and my insecurities were gone. After feeling a lack of faith, I look right and glance out of the windows.
There are three large windows across the south end of my room; there’s no additional space for wall. Oh, but the beauty that shows beyond the windows. There are the trees, the grass, the leaves, and all of nature’s beauty. It gives me a warmth in my heart and in my soul. The beauty provides me with a feeling of comfort and temporary assurance that everything will be alright. Then, after zoning out for a while, I shift my glance down a little. Below the windows, there is a wall of dressers that appear as supports, but are not. Just as my glance shift, my thoughts do also. My next thought is “Why do I have all of these clothes?” I don’t where the majority of them. “Why are there all these drawers?” I ask myself. I dwell on the thought for a wee bit, and then, shift my glance and my thoughts once again.
I lay back down, facing the west side of my room, but I won’t get close. I lay at the edge of the bed. I fear that side; I fear my closet. My king size bed is pushed up against my closet, but my room is so small that I have no choice. I can’t stand being so close. That’s a fear I don’t want to face. At this point, it’s dark outside. No lights are on, so the visual is gone. The room is black. I still lie in fear of my closet; I fear that there may be bugs or something there beyond my control, like a child’s fear.
Then, he comes and lays with me; only he lays next to the closet. He is my additional sense of comfort, my other half, and the fearless part of me. So, I feel strong, and I lay by him next to the closet. Now, I feel whole and comforted. I feel at home in my room. My room is my friend, but yet too my foe. In the day, everything is perfect, besides my thoughts, but even they are provided by a sense of relief. At night, without him I live in fear. But I’d rather be in my room rather than anywhere else because it is my comfort zone. It is my dwelling place. My room is my room even if the physical details are seen passively.
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