Childish Tendencies

Awoken by the clattering sound of books, I rose to find a landfill of belongings scattered throughout the expanse of what had once been a room. Slumped atop my dishevelled mattress, I stared into oblivion, trying to make sense of where to start. As I stood up, I was knocked back into reality by the downfall of a shelf.

I looked up towards the perched clock and examined the time: 7:20 AM. Right underneath had been a desk, now showered with books and crumpled paper. In an attempt to walk over, I stumbled over a box. Curious, I heaved it over to my dimly lit auburn desk and tossed aside other work. The cardboard atrocity had seen things. Its deteriorating and damp state gave a sort of nostalgic appeal. I lifted the lid open to find pictures, tossed away. These yellowing rectangles of preserved memories captured in time didn't ring a bell until I held them out. I couldn't make out its details. However, when examined closely, it had been this room. My room.

Moving out had been hard. Packing up your whole life from the only place you've called home. Ever since we moved, this has been the only recurring dream, vision that has plagued my mind. Even though it looked as if a hurricane had stormed through, I still found order in the chaos.

I made my way towards the windowsill by pushing through piles of clothes and sheets and crossing a firey swarm of Legos nestled between the carpet. Stickers and drawings were plastered up for display and radiated childish tendencies of drawing on walls. I gently traced the grooves of fluorescent diagrams etched into the wall as I recollected the mundane summer afternoons locked away in my humble abode.

I sat amongst these skeletons, these mirrors, these constant reminders of my past and rejoiced in the sense of comfort and safety they gave me, knowing my childhood had been good while it lasted.