This is the place I go when I’m sad, also the place I visit when I’m mad. From the cluttered mess to the everlasting warmth. It’s not just four walls and a floor. Everyone has that place they call their “happy place,” and mine happens to be my room.
I scan my room, my eyes doing a thorough sweep. The white oak bookcase catches my eyes first, the sturdiness looms over everything else in the room. Different books ranging from Fahrenheit 451 to Alice and Wonderland were laying around with their spines broken, and pages dog-eared. Most of the pages were stained with coffee and tears from long nights but the love of the books is clearly visible. Empty coffee cups were smudged with lipstick were strewed across the floor. In the corner of the room I spotted a completely filled sketchbook with the colored pencils and the remains of the pencil shavings nearby. Empty discarded papers were bunched up and it was evident that someone threw them carelessly around. An array of different colors of clothes- from rompers to leather jackets- looked like they were hit by a bomb. A pair of shorts were on the fan, and even so the fan slowly circled around. Judging from the mess, it would’ve been nearly impossible to set a foot on the floor without getting tangled up. A dresser sat still on the other side of the room, the oak clean yet dented. Makeup crowded the counter top, eyeliner smeared on the clean surface and lipsticks remained uncapped. The mirror above the dresser was slightly foggy and there was a lipstick kiss print on the bottom right corner. Taped on the mirror with clear tape was different strips from photobooths taken in various film. In the middle of the room was placed a queen bed, the sheets unmade. A teddy bear sat in the center as if placed on a throne.
It was mainly quiet, and the silence pierced my ears. There was a low hum from the fan which contradicted the buzz of the heater. There was a hiss as the warm air met the cold but then that noise died. I put the television on to distract myself from the silence. Some sort of dialogue played, maybe two people yelling at each other? A type of drama? That played on in the background. Muffled noises came from downstairs, but the thick walls tuned them out. The wind brushed through the trees outside, creating the harmony of mother natures windchime. It was more the lack of noise that was deafening rather than the noises. The floor squeaked and some sort of animal made a slight itching noise in the wall.
I’m safe, whole, complete. Nothing can affect me when I’m here. I’m happy, and at peace. My feeling of comfort is strong. My heavy eyelids slowly drift closed, like gravity is forcing them down. My bed is softer than soft, and it feels like I was drifting away. Slowly I lose feeling of my body and I am just one being. So completely incomplete. There’s a feeling, a sensation, of falling. I’m going down and it feels like I’m flying. There’s no place I could be as comfortable. All my thoughts, my worries, my anxieties float lazily out of the window. All of my dreams and happy moments of the day rush through my mind. All of my darkest secrets are dissipated, and I’m free. There truly is something to be said about the freedom of one’s own room, their private world.
Here is a place that’ll be my home forever. Whether I’m traveling, in college, or old with my own house, this will always be my happy place. The walls hold secrets no one will ever know, and each corner of the floor has its own memory. The definition of bliss is perfect happiness, and this is its source.