My bedroom is often empty and discarded space, only used for when the moon lulls me into it with visions of sugarplum fairies replacing the stress of life. Of work. Of school. Of all of it. The 2 burnt orange walls out of the four give a warm and reassuring wave that emits over me as I lie on my matching pillow. One could say the walls are ablaze, ablaze with change, new paintings, artifacts, memories being plastered to the wall like the smile of a “friend” that is so genuine and helpful but sometimes couldn’t feel more fake. The heaped and, like the room itself, discarded clothes on top of the dresser are whining for someone, anyone, to wear them. I will get to them, save them, but adults only multiply the sickening amount of cloth gathering. Adults multiplying the cloth but really I am the monarch, the dictator in denial that decides who gets invited into the kingdom of solids, patterns, and logos that clash in such a way that a civil war is ripping them apart. A pristine and truthful mirror presides over this battle, reflecting the never at ease feeling of being more. Wanting more. Doing something in my own kingdom, making a name for myself. Standing apart from the rest. Cracked spines of the grandfather books lie on my bed stand, sitting motionless until it is time to share their story that survived the test of time. They are always there to fulfill and give you morals that are often neglected in the world they are sharing their tale in. How much I want to live those morals out for them, be the cane or wheelchair to guide forgotten morals outside from their nursing home and share them. Share the morals we need so badly. Why can’t I even when I try so hard?
My bedroom could never be more of the person who is in it.