I sit cross legged on my unkempt bed, looking around, I realize just how familiar my room is to me. I see it everyday, and it’s the only thing I can really call my own place.
Even with the unpleasant odor in the air, probably from my sneakers, it seems calm, relaxing. “The Legacy of an Adopted Child” hangs freely over my keyboard. The frame’s silvery shine, looking exsquisite against the poorly painted lavendar colored walls.
My lavendar colored walls.
Clothes are laying everywhere, there’s so much junk on the carpet, you might even question if there is indeed a floor.
Even with its messiness, and chaotic atmosphere, I’ve learned to love it. And I know that foil eye hanging above my dresser, with the tears pouring out, will be there forever, even when I eventually move out. It will be there watching the room as time gradually changes it, reshaping its history.