As I walk into the room that has belonged to me for about eight years now, I am not myself. I am a stranger. A distant person that has never known me. All I know is that it is a girl’s room.
And what may a stranger find in this unfamiliar surrounding?
I take one step inside the room and the most prominent colour around me is the colour pink. It is the perfect shade a young girl would wear on her lips to compliment her sundress on a first date. A playful hue of sweetness combined with a little tinge of charm. To my left is a single bed. It seems she doesn’t have any siblings and often enjoys this seclusion and personal space. I hope she likes the undivided attention from her parents. On the bed, lie two blankets, a pillow and a cushion. I guess this person takes comfort very seriously. The cushion cover has photos on it. These are aesthetic photos of her holding leaves and wearing pretty clothes as she flaunts her vain smile. Her dark hair and red lipstick tell me how confident she feels as the wind blows through her hair and she stands tall in her high boots. Her clothes tell me that she likes Black. She doesn’t seem like a pink- room sort of person. I guess she liked it as a child and then decided to stick with it because it reminded her of all the things she used to be.
I see some soft toys. Not enough in number to portray a certain fondness and not finite enough to be mere decoration. One of them even has a tag on it. Is she developing an interest in them or are they gifts from other people? It appears the biggest soft toy is also her favourite. It sits on her bed right next to her pillow. Maybe it steals the loneliness from her nights which she shares with only her restricted bed.
Around me are plenty cabinets and a closet but this still does not make her seem organized. She has books, papers and stationery sprawled all over her desks and a Black, unfolded jacket sitting on top of those things. I did think she liked Black. Her messy room reminds of the conflicts in my own mind. The clash of priorities that surround my everyday resonate with the clash of her everyday things. Her dressing table has a long mirror. She likes to look at herself and examine every detail that encrusts her body. The table is messier than her desks. Unwashed make up brushes and hairbands are the epicenter of the chaos. Around that, the other things are stacked so very neatly.
But the thing that intrigues me the most is how in love she is with her life. I could infer that from all the photos on the walls with her fairy lights. The lights are like tiny traces of beauty in her life that she likes to cherish. She isn’t even in some of the photos. It’s only her friends(I assume), looking joyous as ever. She wants to surround herself with what she believes is the goodness in her life. She does not want extravagant, pretty things. She only wants things that constantly remind her of who she is in this façade of a world. As the world gets crazy, she prefers being in this sane part of her house where her reality is confined to herself only.