My Room

Here is a story I wrote for one of my classes, contrasting what everyone knows about a thing (my room) with what I know about it.

What everyone knows about my room is narrow. Possibly from the crack of the door, few were able to see the cluttered surfaces or notice some of my collection of random items, but not much more than that. The others, who have fully entered, might be quick to label my habits similar to those of a pack rat. Old dingy tennis shoes with gray-stained soles hang from the closet walls, over the knocked over piles of t-shirts and torn jeans that have fallen from it’s hanger. The desk adjacent from the messy closet holds stacks of books with even more underneath it. All four walls are coated with pictures of family and friends and posters from old concerts. And against the wall farthest from the door is the bed. The tidiest part of the room with it’s slightly wrinkled leopard-print cover draped across the mattress and two large pillows plopped at the end of the bed. They see my room and judge my character as if each article of fallen clothing reveals the theory behind my behavior.

But what I know about my room is that it is more like a museum than a mess. The old tennis shoes hang in my closet because they were worn when I climbed the Great Wall and when I played in my first softball game. The pictures, in chronological order, display the memories from my childhood. And while most of the posters are of artist that I do enjoy, many are of people that no longer interest me, and only stay plastered on my walls to take up space and remind me of who I use to enjoy, like Lil Bow Wow and the Backstreet Boys. Beneath my photos and posters stands the only thing in my room that I consistently interact with, which is the reason why it stays the neatest part of my room. It is the center and escape point of the room, and the place that can truly transform my stressed mood to relaxed. My room is a reflection of not only myself now, but also of my past self.