I love my room. It has become my sanctuary to return to anytime I need comfort. I can toss my shoes onto the floor and lie back on my soft cloud of a bed. All the famous people look at me from the pieces of paper on the walls. Each one has had an impact on my life.

My room tells my story. It’s who I am and what I’ve become. Scattered pictures of childhood reminding me of good times sit frozen on my desk. My trophy shelf; with its hardwood finish and two glass doors that creak open reveal my accomplishments. Everything from a second grade soccer award to the cum laude award I earned from the National Latin Exam my freshman year.

Then there are my clothes; scattered about my room ready to be selected to spend the day with me. Whether it be dress khakis and a polo or those old fleece pants I would never wear out in public. I even keep all my old school books. If I ever want to remind myself of what I learned in 7th grade English class my notes are there, sitting in a dusty corner of my room, ready at my disposal.

My room is everything. The way things are assembled show how my life is progressing. A bad week probably means clothes thrown eschew all over the floor while a good one allows me to see my entire carpet clear of scattered accessories. My room also allows me to travel back in time by delving into the annexes of my old self.

My room is my cocoon, a place that revolves around me. It’s a place where I can gain some piece of mind and a place where time stands still. Whenever I need it, my room is there for me. It stands alone, secluded from the rest of the world in its own tiny, tiny pocket in the universe. This time next year my room will be empty but I will forever remain here. Everything I’ve become has embedded itself into all the nooks and crannies of this small square. My room is my home, my room is me.