It feels so long ago when I first saw this room. I knew we were leaving our apartment, but the thought of having my own room was only a vague fantasy I continually built up with my vivid imagination. So when I stepped inside, my brain twisted and flexed. "I can put my bed here, make a secret passage way through here, make a web on this side..."
The only things left from the previous owner were a small end table with chipping white paint and a nail in the wall next to the window, carrying the burden of a plastic crucifix. Of course, there was the pinkish brown carpeting, flaunting its age with as much dignity as it could gather upon my inspection. Before I moved in I would sit with these new friends in my new room while watching cartoons on a 4 inch black and white television and admiring the way the sunlight warmed my abode.
But those are all gone now. I've lived here for over a decade now, barring a four year long sporadic hiatus, and everything I first saw in the room is gone. The end table and crucifix faded from my eyes with the passage of time, and that determined rug pulled up and trashed after a violent interaction between my father and a bucket of red paint.
That room that was once a barnyard for reckless dreams has now been jammed to the brim with belongings and rearranged a thousand times. It is a tired, safe space. However, there are times when the dust on my dresser catches the sun's rays in such a way that it reminds me of the dust on that chipped white paint. And the light from the sun draws me toward the window to look for my next chapter as this one comes to a close.
