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My Room

When I leave my family whether to go to university, to sight see, or to become a world famous something-or-other, I have a dream room. There are a few items I will bring with to remind me of my home. My books, my way to escape into other worlds of time-space travelers, of green witches, or of people in love; I would take my dreams. I would take my photographs, my memories. A grinning blonde eight year old with her arm around her equally smiley friend, a face with puffed up cheeks about to blow out candles, a Halloween costume. I would bring my past. This is what I will bring.
When I get to where I’m going, I will find a room. A room with at least one window, and a door, and walls. These are the things that make up a room. But until my dreams, and my past are in the room, it won’t belong to me. I’ll get a bed; I’ll get some shelves, a desk, more books, and more dreams. These will make up my present.
Finally I would find that someone. Someone who has the same dreams as I do, and who can appreciate them. Someone who has their past, their memories and with whom I can talk about my past and my memories. This someone will be my future.
And one day, when we are old and grey, and our children leave us, I will teach them about my past, my dreams. Then they will leave us, taking their past and their dreams with them, leaving us with the ghosts. And I will remember my room with a desk, a bed, a window and walls. And I will know that a room with our dreams, pasts, futures can make up a lifetime.



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