My bed. This thing has seen it all. My good days, my bad days, my good nights, my bad nights. it's kept me warm when the weather is freezing cold, and too hot in the summer. I like sleeping with my layers.
But I'm especially grateful that tonight, it's my own bed. In my own room, in my house. No roommates coming up the stairs, or getting ready for bed. Just me, myself and I. And the crazy people who live in my head, but they don't really count that much, do they?
My room hasn't changed too much since I was about...five. I still have my bunny wallpaper, my quilt my grandma gave me when I was born hanging on the wall. The cross-sitched picture is currently MIA, but I have a hunch where it could be. The only things that have changed are the addtion of my chair, which is currently holding clothes and another quilt, my bedspread, though the orginal is just underneath my comforter, the big pink rug that I probably should vacuum soon, my endtable replacing my bench one, though that's at the foot of my bed, and the moving out of the Barbie house. Keep in mind, this is just a summarization of the past 20 years I've been in this room. Oh, forgot to mention replaced the crib full of my stuffed animals with my sister's dresser.
But I like my room the way it is. It's reflective of who I am: trying to grow up while holding on to childhood.
Maybe my mom should have let me paint my room pink when I wanted to. Then I might be more open to changing my bedroom now.
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