A white door leading into a white painted room. Brown carpet littered with dirty clothes and textbooks that wouldn’t fit on a bright white bookcase. On the shelves lay books from my childhood and books I have read recently and books I have yet to read. Around the books are a collection of memories: a harmonica John Popper from Blues Traveler gave me, a Mason Jar with Doctor Who sonic screwdrivers, a playbills from the first play I trully stage managed, and a plastic glass slipper from one of my favorite plays I have ever worked on. Stringing across the same wall my bookshelf is on are photos hanging from a string of fairy lights.
There is a wall with a large window looking out over the woods I call my backyard. Dark brown curtains cover the large window hiding a green and red cactus named Prick and a small air plant named Tim. Up against the window is a white, cast iron bed. That is where warmth is and happiness. Blue and tan sheets and comforter lay atop a lavender scented mattress; twelve blankets are bundled together on the top of the sheets. Woven into the headboard is more photos hung on fairy lights.
On either side of bed are two nightstands. One has a silver lamp that looks like the lamp in Pixar that I had bought for that soul purpose. Next to the lamp is a small mirror which I wrote “You are lovely” on. On the other night stand is a collection of candles. The smells of flowers, pumpkin, Gandalf’s pipe, and apple flow through my room when lit. Above that second night stand, across from my bookshelves, is a large picture of actress Audrey Hepburn. She hangs there you watch over my room every day and every night. At the other end of the wall is a poster of a knight hanging his head in shame just above my desk.
Lastly, my desk. A bright blue wooden desk covered in old papers, scraps of writing, magazines, and pens. My desk is where creativity is set into motion. My desk is where those late night poems and dreams are written into being. My desk is where I start projects and complete them. It is a sacred space for my imagination to roam free into notebooks that lay in front of me. Pages torn from old spirals and composition notebooks painted with doodles of a stick figure I named Joe and my rants about the world we are living in.
We have come full circle and back to the white door hiding the white painted walls. The brown colored carpet remains littered with dirty clothes and my bed is covered in a bundle of blankets. My room is my imagination, thoughts, dreams, my safe space. This is my room.