The walls are still as blue as when I left them…
The lamp still sits in its cozy corner…
The carelessly placed chair that never has a particular space yet always managed to fit in…
The door that has opened up to people who have walked in…in my life and then walked out…
The beige cream curtains…hiding the large windows that have opened up to such fabulous sights… snow and rain…hail and heat…
Time isn’t fluid here…it is frozen…
It is my escape from the hurried existence we call ‘life’…
Not one book out of place…
Not a little shift in positions…
The dusty shelf peers at me…
Memories plastered over the walls…
Words, cruel and kind, splattered over…
My confusing puberty encapsulated within these walls…
The lamp reflects my despair in semi-darkness…or my warmly lit happiness…
The windows frame my midnight talks…
The table holds my imagination…through my sketches…it captures my impulsive scribbles…and the ponderous prose…my fantasy that I penned…
The bed …those lazy mornings…the bouts of sleeplessness…the dreamy hours…
My blue phone…the endless conversations…
The music still fills the space…
This space that I call my room…
My room…my existence…
In it I have lived the true me…been the real me…
Lived my insecurities, my pms days, my morning coffees, my fights and subsequent slams, my lonely hours…
It has given birth to my thought processes…my room has been my own cocoon…
If only walls could speak…mine would have a thousand tales to tell…
But then again…some things are best mute.
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