It is often in solitude that we find peace.
Whether it be your favorite chair where you cozy up to read a book or your basement where you watch your favorite movies, each place is individual and special to each person.
My favorite place in the whole world is my room.
It’s messy and chaotic and imperfect, just like me. Inside my four walls lies a bed, a vanity, a dresser, and a nightstand, each with their own story of how they found their place in my room.
Every single thing in it has meaning to me.
The comforter cover is the first duvet set I got that wasn’t covered in peace signs and patterns but instead in the color that was all the rage in 2016: coral. Hanging off of a hook on my closet door is an upside-down flower pot I purchased at an antique store three years ago with the hope of painting it and making it look pretty.
Dangling from my ceiling fan is a miniature Starbucks cup that was a hidden treasure found in the back of a souvenir shop in Tennessee two summers ago. Sitting on my dresser is a tiny statuesque snake figurine that was gifted to me for my bravery in the Rattle Snake Museum in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Laid across my floor, covered in corrugated wrinkles and bent upwards in unnatural ways, is a rug covered in stains. Each contains its own memory, like the hot pink one caused by a spilled lip gloss. All over my ceiling are glow-in-the-dark stars left here by the previous owners, no doubt reminiscent of someone’s childhood.
Resting on my dresser is a photo of me and my friends from preschool when times were simpler, and I had nothing to worry about except for monsters. Strung poorly in the corner of my room is the first gift my brother ever bought for me himself: fairy lights. It spans the walls between my bed and dresser, each light covered by a white luminescent sphere that emanates a light glow to my room.
What is chaos to others is sanctity to me, and although it may be messy and haphazardly arranged, I wouldn’t change a thing if I had the choice because it’s who I am. Every trinket and saved birthday card is a reminder to me that life isn’t just about making it through but also about making it count.
Every time I look around my room, I find a piece of myself and a fragmented memory preserved in the back of my mind. When I’m sitting in bed at 11:30 p.m. desperately trying to come up with a story topic, I don’t just look around and see four walls and a door; I see the life I’ve lived, memorialized, and remembered for the way it has influenced me. My room is a treasure trove of memories, and it will always be my safe space.
