The shards of my past that are plastered all over my walls form a sort of metaphysical tavern, filled to the brim with various characters happy sad jovial and the like, buzzing about chatty, chippy, and clumsy with the wafting of the ceiling fan. Ready to tell their own personal histories and share the tales of their glory days lost in drunken candor. And sometimes, being that I'm a regular to this family run establishment, that family being the different pieces of myself that decided such mementos should stay, I take a seat and soak in the roar of the thick crowd on my weathered bed frame and mattress. I know all of their names, their offspring, where they're from. Their reasons for visiting. I listen to all the hoots and hollers and crashing of drinks as my memories befriend some and start arguments with others, all in a sort of blissful chaos in my mind. There are the early goers and those who refuse to depart until their dirty laundry and heroic deeds have once more been aired. There are the memories who refuse to go unheard and those who leave having uttered nothing but meek peeps and shy greetings who undersell their own importance, but are equally appreciated. Sliding quietly past all the warm bodies and bar-stool legs. But none go unnoticed...
I find comfort in these walls...
I find home in these walls.
Many people, or at least many that I know, have some sort of place where they store old keepsakes. You know, like old Polaroid pictures or ticket stubs. Sometimes in shoe boxes, other times in drawers or special areas in their attics. But some dedicate entire rooms to meet that need to preserve, and... my room is just that. It's like a walk in scrapbook- never quite clean even when I clean it because I find too many dinky things somehow significant, but maintaining a sort of charm none the less.
...As one could very easily deduct from previous writings, I'm one of those people who rather frequently explains too far into things when it is to say the least, "unnecessary". You know, like the whole paragraph long metaphor up there. But this bad habit exists wholly because of a unique rush I get ( for reasons not yet clear to me ) from disclosing things grand and minute about mine own life. I truly don't know why, but I get a special kind of excitement from people listening to my ramblings and taking the time to understand all that I am, which in my humble opinion can only be truly expressed and clearly depicted with ample detail. I am a firm believer that many of the larger changes, developments, beauties and tragedies in life are culminations of many seemingly "small" intricacies of every day life and interaction. Therefore I thoroughly provide such information. But with this room... My room... So much is splayed out in the open. Walking into my cozy living quarters is more truthfully taking a step into my own personal world. And despite the clutter, I love it.
I find comfort in these walls...
I find home in these walls.
Many people, or at least many that I know, have some sort of place where they store old keepsakes. You know, like old Polaroid pictures or ticket stubs. Sometimes in shoe boxes, other times in drawers or special areas in their attics. But some dedicate entire rooms to meet that need to preserve, and... my room is just that. It's like a walk in scrapbook- never quite clean even when I clean it because I find too many dinky things somehow significant, but maintaining a sort of charm none the less.
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| Those are ticket stubs etc. stuffed into the picture frames |
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