If there were any place that would seem like an
unknown planet cowering away from the glares of others, it would have to be my room. But I didn''t see it like that: instead of seeing it like an ‘unknown planet'', I took my room as a safe heaven of soothing sounds, cluttered
junk and wonderful, aromatic smells. It was my personalised junkyard where all my chaotic belongings sprang to life like Jack-in-the-boxes, dangerously close to being pushed out of the window one-by-one. The most muddled up part of my room was my bedside table, which extended as long as a pirate''s plank up till my cupboard. Laying in a disarray pile on it were my porcelain
doll and my stuffed toys, the toys peeking out from behind the doll. I loved the doll to bits; she glared at me with a vulture''s eye, she
gave the room more energy and zest, and every time I looked into her glassy green eyes, I saw dynamism and spirit sparking out of them instead of seeing a hollow emptiness, a barren land. Her eyes, which frisked with joy, seemed to brighten up the room despite its usual mess with their mischief lurking like tadpoles under pond-leaves. Apart from that, my clothes were strewn all over the
floor; the radio blasted punk
music at top volume, the singer''s shrieks drowning my mother''s voice, and the water-dripping down from the air conditioner, clawing its way out and finally embracing the floor where it lay smugly. My room may be the most messed up room with the water spattered on the tiled floor and the porcelain doll grinning, as happy as a chipmunk, but it had its fair share of wonderful, musky scents bumping into your nose like dodgem cars racing at top speed, as you entered. Each scent had a personality of its own — from the inviting, fresh bed sheets grinning slyly, were Cheshire cats getting ready to pounce on their victims, and the faint, alluring fragrance of spicy apples lurking in the atmosphere. Each aroma tantalised me, and made the room feel more personalised; they almost gave the room a character of its own. Everywhere I stepped, my junk littered the floor. My four-inch mini hour-
glass contained the pinkest and brightest sand ever, each grain a curious speck of wonder tumbling contentedly on top of others. And every time I picked it up from the raggedy, faded rug, each sprinkle dropping to the curved, gleaming half of the glass, was a second gone, a moment lost in time; as each shower of pink grains fell, a memory was imprinted in my mind forever. I had five of these hourglasses covering my carpet like murky, inerasable ink stains, and they were lovely to touch. The shape of their frames were carved delicately and painted so as to give it a shiny gleam, as pretty as a bright star in the sky blinking like an eye, and the contours of glass voluptuous, curving inwards gracefully. The music, which always blared out from my room, was punk music much to the annoyance of my parents, and it added a more defiant, rebellious nature to my room full of jumbled junk. But I couldn''t and wouldn''t change my room for its untidiness and for all it was worth; it gave me a personality, and each of my possessions (even the scents) gave it a disordered feel, which I liked very much. Although I had outgrown some of the property I owned in the room, each and every piece of ‘junk'' was valuable to me. All this ‘junk'' made the room less aesthetically pleasing to others, but for me, all of it would always be priceless as gems my whole life.
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