orange.attic.yellow.

A few nights ago, I faced the inevitable: spending the night again in my own room. I know I've been home for quite some time already, but I've always just been using my parents room since they were away most of the time. But when the time came, I felt a wonderful sense of finally, really, coming home.

There, amidst my orange plastic flowers hanging from the uneven attic ceiling, the spirit of who I have always been remain. The books and journals stacked up and filling up my shelves are the same ones that bore witness (and continue to, still) to all thoughts and aspirations --- childish or otherwise --- that I have always had. My oversized bed gave the same refuge and comfort that it has consistently offered me from my days as a procrastinating student. And yes, the three white-washed closet doors still hold clothes that reveal how often my weight has fluctuated these past years, and how often I have rummaged within, complaining that I have nothing to wear.

And there is one thing that remains ever consistent -- I still have the same tendency to put my room last among all rooms in the house. My shelves still need thorough dusting, my floors need waxing, my cabinets need re-organizing. I've given my energy to the other rooms in the house these past weeks, I dont have that much left for mine.

My room speaks of who I am. It knows who I am, who I was and can probably answer my nagging questions of who I will be more accurately than I can. It knows how to be who I am...it knows how it is to be disregarded somewhat and saved for last by the same people it holds dear.