How My Room Reflects My Inner State and Personality

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It is true that our memories fade. It cannot be disputed. Our mind alters the truth, changing the events every single time. That's why I don't remember that day the way you do. So how are we to know whose version is the truth?

Time stands still, and thus we become immortal. Captured in a candid moment. Our faces blurry, in nondescript emotion. However, the same youthful joy is frozen into the frame. We can still hear the sounds of laughter and over-excited squeals still resonate throughout our minds. Although we may forget the day, time or event we will never forget the feelings. We will always feel the same.

My room is a big part of who am I. Warm, artificial light engulfs me. The spotlight above me is harsh and unforgiving, casting menacing shadows of all angles across the room, consequently painting me in an unflattering light. The glow from above my desk is contrastingly warm and soft, illuminating the photographs which are lazily stuck to the wall. Each image contains the essence of a kind of warm but distant memory, encapsulating a multitude of emotions. Faces of friends I knew so well, seem faded now - less important. Their voices have escaped my mind, and become unrecognisable. Despite this, they still remain to be comforting, inducing a sense of nostalgia in me, although I do not know what I miss. The people, or the event? I wonder if we all look at the same image in the same way. I am sure that we do not. A feeling of happiness in me, could reside a feeling of pain in someone else. I will never know, for what they feel is no longer important to me. Of course I miss some of my friends, just not the ones I expected to miss. When did my closest friends become so insignificant? Why do I never want to talk to them?

I must admit photograph that I am attached to the most, is of John, Attila and Emily - the only three people I can actually stand to talk to anymore from back home. They’re all uncomfortably close to each other, in awkward angles, forced together for the sake of a photo. Emily is unattractively close to the camera, so much so that you can see every detail of her skin from the freckle on her forehead, to each individual sparkle of her eyeshadow, the boys however, battle to be seen. John, is blurry and far off in the background, where only his nose and hair can be seen, whilst Attila is desperate to get between Emily and I, as you can see by his strained facial expression. I, on the other hand, am completely unaffected by all the commotion and remain in a comfortable space on the far left side of the image almost as if no one is around me at all. It’s amazing that one snapshot of time can hold so much power with-in it.

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Disarray and commotion seems to be a common theme in my life at the moment, as demonstrated by the three loose dull red apples that lay strewn about on my desk. Along with my shoes, caked in dry cracked mud, which are lined up in an organised mess against my wall, all at odd angles and lying upon each other for support. Scuffed toes and worn-down soles, they lie stagnant and lifeless. A rainbow of fabrics scatter my floor, all strewn out at different angles. My coat is dramatically spread along the floor, the contents of its pockets leaking out. My jacket hangs uneven and limp from the shoulder of my chair.

Little bright red packets lie scattered on the smooth laminate surface of the desk, some like little hollow shells, and others like immoveable rocks. They remain to be a beacon of attention, reflecting the harsh artificial light from a multitude of angles. To others, they may seem insignificant for how can chocolate mean so much to someone? But their appearance creates a specific taste in my mouth that I hate, which contrastingly reminds me of the life I lived back home. I hate it, but I can’t help but long for the familiar feeling.

My curtain falls half open, revealing the abyss of darkness from outside my window. The bitter wind whistles through the leaves of the old oak tree outside, causing its branches to slap relentlessly against my window. Heavy drops of rain spit against my window in an irregular pattern, creating a small river that runs from top to bottom. Winter is unforgiving. Leaves flutter in through the tiny crack in my window, resting peacefully upon my bedroom floor. They are unwelcome, and yet I feel no inclination to make them leave. Crushed and crumpled, they bury deep into the fibres of my floor - hibernating for the winter. An icy wind accompanies it, causing my poster to flap against my wall, much like a fish out of water. It is a horrific sound. Although, I shouldn’t complain, its my fault that the poster is hung so badly; it was a temporary fix that seemed to have stuck, even now I refuse to go and fix it. It can’t even pass as being put straight.

Unmade bed sheets spill out from underneath, it too homing the a few of the hibernating leaves. The snow-white undersheet spills out over the frame of the bed, cascading towards the floor like a frozen avalanche. The duvet is thrown into a ball, cowering in the corner as if it were afraid of the pillows. A vast expanse of space separates the two. The two pillows are the only components of my bed that are in order, they’re stacked neatly upon one another and in their appropriate position. It is ironic that they are this way, as it completely contrasts my apparent mental state.

I believe a lot can be deduced by the state of one’s bedroom. It can reveal a character in a way in which their bodies can’t. The environment they have built for themselves, composed of little trinkets, posters, photographs and furniture, consequently builds upon their personality as well. I am aware that mine contrast, as although it contains all the features to make it as homely as possible, I keep myself at a distance. I do not care for the state that it is in. I do not care about how all my possessions are laid out. I do not care that it isn’t the way I had always envisioned. Sadly, I do care when someone makes a comment, as it is not their place to do so. I become defensive.

It is a mess. Due to this, I guess I am too. This is not home. This is not mine. This is not me. My space is littered with colour. Each piece decidedly different. It’s a painting built upon a large canvas. There is no rhythm. There is no restriction. I am free here. I live outside the bounds of normality and your social conventions.

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