My Room

My room. It’s where I sleep foremost, but now where I live in IKEA clad, hotel-like, personalised, organised perfection. There is no corner, there is no square inch, no desk leg, no washable pillow, no door hook that I haven’t thought through, pored over, moved, adjusted, hit restart on. It’s my domain, my perfection. I’ve stacked my books neatly, reordered them by height and by the bits that jut out, with a myriad of colours that naturally accommodate each other. From one shelf to another, to fitting along the side of the desk to the other shelf but now back home to where they started. Dusted and decluttered, the space is perfect. I’ve reused, recycled, thrown-out, up cycled, given on all the things I deem unnecessary, for this is mine, my space. Last year’s ever-locked bike lock leaves. Study notes that haven’t seen the light of day since the exam hall, they move on too. Empty film canisters rehouse themselves with USB cables cushy and smiling, jumping to be the next pulled from the drawer. But my eyes search, my mind redevelops what is mine, what my £500 a month gets me. This space is all mine and I want it better, I want it perfect. Perfect. My plants, they’ve multiplied and grown, I water with care and time abundance, I dab their leaves to dedust, I rotate them to maximise sunlit hours and spread their rapturous bursts of life in other directions. This is my kingdom. The bookshelf side that towers over my desk, normally painted post-it-note pale yellow, begins to break out in emulsified matt white as post-it-note after post-it-note finds itself in the bin. Some old, some new, they are called to service, ticked, crumpled, done. “Meditate” one cries, “call uncle John” bellows another, “new passport” echoes around the room, all triumphant and proud to have served, they display one last time. Still though, I look. I tuck the chair in under my desk. I thread the laptop cable neatly under, it all fits. Perfection. I hoover like never before, intricately detailing the skirting boards and wardrobe’s nooks and crannies, I don’t miss a thing, not one bit. Ergonomically speaking my laptop is eye-line perfect, hovering above my desk with shoulder-pain soothing ease. The radiator has been bled, this is a well-oiled machine, my room. I sit back in my domain. My Kingdom. I have left no stone unturned, every speck of dust has been cleansed, all in place. I think more, I observe more and the more I do so, the more my room expands and my thoughts, uncontrollable and wavering leave the perfection, leave the organisation, leave the comfort of my room.

By Sean Brophy

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