I’m sitting up in bed in the room that was mine in high school. The purple walls are the same, the perfect purple, the color that means home the most for me. Everything else about the room is different (except for the cat light switch cover), but coming home to sleep here is extremely comforting. I think if it was the same as it had been before, that would be weird. This is my parents’ house, and my mom updates it constantly; the house changes as she changes.
I like these windows. Every time I look at them I am almost seeing something from my past, feeling something familiar and unknown, expecting it to be summer 2000. They are also just windows as they were meant to be experienced – white frames, the right size, looking out onto the back yard and the neighbor’s house.
I’ve lived in eight rooms. Had eight rooms that were mine. I’ve been thinking a lot about rooms lately, what I want in a room. It’s important – your space is where you do your living and dreaming and loving and creating, it needs to be a good space. I need my space to reflect the inside of me in some way, I always have. If my room is a mess, I need to clean it before I can feel ok. I think I get this from my mom – we both will reorganize our spaces until they feel just right.
I am calmed by this room and this house. Tomorrow I go back to the city and work, and I am trying to keep the stressing at bay. I have been stressing too much lately. I need to let go of the things I cannot control. Right now I can read Archie Comics and cuddle up with my stuffed animals and blankies. Which is what I am going to do.