British Lit 12
10 September 2014
Four walls, decorated with pictures, movie tickets, concert posters, and art. Two small
windows covered by flimsy white curtains barely shielding the sun. One fullÂsized bed complete with
stuffed animals from several years passed, and giant, fluffy pillows. My sanctuary. My place of peace.
My room. The one place in the world that I am able to fully and completely be myself without worrying
about yesterday's troubles and tomorrow's hardships. It is home.
If someone were to walk inside my room right now, they would look around and see my
fingerprint stamped throughout it. Marks of who I am exist on every surface. To truly get to know me,
all one has to do is cross over the foot of my door and then they enter into my world. Engulfing my
room are walls plastered with snapshots of my friends, my family, and my life. It is easy to gather who
and what is most important to me through the photos and posters covering them. Against the back wall,
stands an enormous bookcase overflowing with all types of writing. The signs of love are clear in their
worn down pages, folded covers, and bookmarked chaptersÍ¾ inside each of those copies lives a piece
of who I am, who I was, or even who I would like to be. In the center of my room lies my bed. Every
inch is fully covered with some form of a fluffy friend that has been with me since childhood, reminding
me of my past. Decorating my dresser, stand birthday cards, awards, or knick knacks I have
accumulated throughout my seventeen years. In short, my room tells my story. It is stained with the
essence of who I am. And...