It's odd. This room once so clean and tidy is now a mess, yet it still fulfills its main purpose: storage.
Whatever you don't know where to find, you come here. It most likely won't be here, but this is the place of a thousand wordly objects, covered mainly by blankets and such.
As I come in for a blanket it seems so odd and unfamiliar to me. This was once my room, and at a young age where I came to come into peaceful solitude to escape the noisiness of the house and simply read.
Not that I was a bookworm but this room easily served more than one purpose and it was the best place to read. I once slept here during the cold winter nights with a small heater.
Now, we rarely visit this room and it's separated from the rest of the house by a meer door. Finding much of anything is nearly impossible with all the mess.
We exclude this room from our lives mostly, since we do not consider it important we do not maintain it. How unfair is that I wonder. Regardless it's just a room, and yet every time I visit the room I can't help but reminice and remember all those good memories from a few years ago.
I don't recall ever crying there like I have in the rest of my house and yet I forget about it as if it didn't exist.
Why is that? I really don't know but it still seems weird to me that I would care so much about this room lying in solitude while it's probably been the best room in the house.
Perhaps it is because it reflects how some people live. Grand as always but rarely taken into account.
But in the end it is merely a room with memories.