My bedroom is a museum. It’s a visual display of my mind and my insides. The chaos that exists in the space is evidence of life, my life. My thoughts turned tangible and placed neatly upon my dresser and bedside table, and my feelings are held within my book collection. The guts of who I am exist in this curated space, and my identity lives in every piece of it.
A girl’s bedroom is not only an extension of herself but proof of her evolution.
Although the room I have at twenty one is vastly different from the room I had as a child, remnants of younger me still remain. The shades of pinks scattered throughout the space are an ode to six year old me. The stuffed frog that lives on my bed is what would have made four year old me smile. The stickers that lived on my closet door at nine have now shifted their presence to the edges of my mirror. Fresh flowers are placed on my bedside because eight year old me would pick them from the cracks in the sidewalk and bring them home to mom. A little lamp sits on my desk for a five year old me who was afraid of the dark.
A girl’s room is a curated collection of all the things that encompass who she was, is, and hopes to be. It is her past, present and future within four walls.
My room is filled with trinkets collected from morning markets, picture frames and polaroids, novels made up of my forever favourites and the ones I bought swearing I would read but never got around to it, sweatshirts belonging to ex boyfriends and a necklace I borrowed from my friend that I forgot to give back. It is filled with more black shoes than one person needs, the pants that my mother once wore when she too was in university, and the same blush I’ve been using since high school.
A girl’s room is made up of girl junk and a sense of belonging.
It is where she can be who she is, authentically and unapologetically. There is no performing and only those closest to her are privy to this space. There is something sacred about the way she arranges her shoes and ruffles her sheets. Everything is perfectly imperfect but it belongs to her and that’s all that matters.
The walls are etched with memories and moments; the mundane and milestones.
If the walls could talk I wonder what they’d say?
My desk is covered in pencil marks from the numerous study days and late night cram sessions. My rug is stained with the tears from my very first heartbreak. The drawers are overflowing with outfits for the bar, pjs for roomie movie nights and thrifted t-shirts. The smell of my favourite perfumes linger on the rotting wood. The floor is made up of scratches from nights overcome by the impulse to rearrange my bedroom furniture cause I needed a fresh start. The windows are stained with greasy fingers and frosted drawings like the ones I used to do when I was little. The ceiling is embedded with the melodies of my favourite songs because I can’t do anything without music playing. The floorboards are now sticky and sweet from all the wine spilled and the laughter had.
If these four walls could talk, they would say that she was always herself in this room – creative, vulnerable, focused, kind, and always giggling. But most of all, it was where she always made sure to have fun.