Where I'm From

I am from my bedroom. On the second floor, in a corner, I reside behind the door labeled "Gravity not permitted beyond this point". Behind the door, you find yourself knee-deep in a sea of dirty clothes, costume props, and whatever else I had felt like using that day. The bookshelves are overflowing; I never did manage to find a space for all the books that keep accumulating. The aroma in the room is a musty paperback sort, mixed with paint fumes and the burnt smell that seeps in with the heating. You hear snoring from beneath the bed – that's my dog, Mouse. There's music playing in a language you don't understand, and I'm singing to it absentmindedly as I browse the Internet. I probably don't even notice you enter.

My laptop sits on a pile of papers and sticky notes strewn haphazardly, jumbled. I'll get to them later, I tell myself. I seldom do. Look past my cluttered desk to the closet with the missing door. It's probably leaking costumes again. You say I'm messy. I say I'm doing six things simultaneously. The Gryffindor flag hangs at an angle on the back wall. My drawings plaster the majority of the space - portraits. The eyes of my past subjects leer at you, judging your every move. It makes you uneasy. Your eyes shift to the pin-up girl calendar above my bed. It's been set to August for five months now.

The windowsill spits crumpled tissues onto my unmade bed as the wind bleeds through the safety-screen and the branches go scritch-scritch-scritch against the glass. There is a draft in the room, though the heat is blaring through the vent; the window is stuck a sliver open, and the wind presses on greedily though the crack, never satisfied. I wear a winter coat to bed. You see it lying on my pillow. I am enveloped in a fluffy My Little Pony blanket, never taking my eyes off the computer screen. It is getting dark. I don't notice. My ceiling light has been broken for months. My standing lamp is shot. I don't mind. I'm a nyctophiliac.

You see a fur pelt nailed to the wall between the two windows. It is a mink pelt, cut from my grandmother's fur coat. Above it hangs a rainbow flag. The curtains are missing from the windows; I pulled them down. They bothered me. There is a full-body mirror propped up between the window and my bookshelf. It is useless, cracked. I like to say it shattered when I looked into it. Really, I dropped something heavy on it. I hate mirrors.

You observe the flood of books. Some you like, some you don't. It holds every genre. The books that are worn and tattered are my favorites. You can see that some are missing their dust jackets. Some are new, pristine in their shiny covers. I haven't read those yet. Perhaps I'll never get to finish my ever-growing collection. Garage sales are my downfall. I can't leave without a teetering armful of new used books. The drawers next to the bookshelves drool clothing from every orifice. On the shelves above the drawers you can see my collection of elephant figurines. They all once belonged to my grandmother. My favorite is the colorful one from Turkey, the one with the fez and the hoop earring.

There is so much cluttered into one small room. You ask how I can stand to live in this mess. I tell you that this mess is an extension of my mind. Jumbled, flustered, moving in six directions at once. This is how I think. You may not be able to handle such an imbroglio. But I, I am perfectly content. This is my bedroom. This is where I am from.