Sometimes my room seems like an emotional laundry basket, but it still hugs me tight and opens its arms with nostalgia filled eyes, wandering here and there, hoping to once again embrace the little girl who used to run in mindlessly and trash it with piles of clothes. Those mountains of clothes had a familiar feel to them, one which made a mess of the room but brought a strange sense of calm to my uneasy mind.
Each corner held a different tantrum in its heart, whether it be fighting my sister for the better bedside, or crying in another because I didn’t get ice cream. The walls hold scars, one of crayon and the other of stickers, a reminder of a blissful and naughty childhood, just like how everyone has that one scar either from falling off a bicycle or simply the result of having siblings.
My cupboard which boasts the spirit of the room, but the inside looks like the aftereffects of a typhoon. Seeing many seasons pass by, its fashion sense still growing on me, I can almost hear its snarky comments like, “Really?! Is that what you want to wear?” Even the air purifier seems like sometimes it’s only job is to take the negativity away, being passive aggressive about all my life decisions, just the judgy element I needed.
The posters on the walls to the paintings, I wonder what they thought of me? Probably that I shouldn’t have snuck a bite of my sister's ice cream, or locked her in the bathroom. Even the door feels like a friend, with a rebellious ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign to save itself from the extra work, and a sarcastic ‘SHE’S STILL SLEEPING’ sign for me. Slamming and locking at my command, the gateway to the only place where one can see my mind, my very own nostalgic laundry basket.
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