Updated: Mar 12
I’ve had the same bedroom my whole life. It’s like a box, except the furthest wall is sloped rather than straight, and that makes the roof somewhat shorter. The room is painted in three colours; pink, white and red. Pink on the furthest and closest walls as you walk in, white on the roof, while the red is painted on the two left over. In primary school my friend told me that no bedroom should be painted red. She reckoned that red summoned the most uncomfortable feelings associated with death, but assured me that within my room the colour scheme was somewhat acceptable considering there were also pink and white.
The walls are marked from the blue-tac that hung up my posters. Most of which weren’t official posters bought in HMV or Golden Discs, but articles ripped out from alternative music magazines that I bought for far too cheap in independent record stores around Leinster. I had a talent for making collages; fitting all these cut-out pictures perfectly into each other like a game of Tetris. I loved collages. Before I became a music obsessive, I picked up free branded booklets from jewellers and used the photographs from them. I was rather oblivious to this flair. As were my peers. The talk of the village was that I had a picture of a shirtless man beside my window. Little did they know he was from the Thomas Sabo catalogue, and I was admiring his watch.
I don’t know how many feet across and abroad my room is. I’m not even entirely sure how tall it is. All I know is that my bed takes up approximately five-ninths of the space; being a massive obstruction planted from the sky in the tiny box room. The mattress is tall, and comfortable enough for me to dream about it during the day. It’d want to be! My last mattress had a humongous hole exactly in the middle with a sharp spring sticking out into the small of my back; leading me to be in a worse mood than usual.
The wardrobe and set of drawers are old-fashioned, they clash with the modern desk. I bought the desk at age eight from IKEA, and pestered my father until he built it. There is plenty of dust, chipped wood and coffee cup stains but I love that desk. I’m partly convinced it led to how productive I once was when it came to all things educational.
On top of my desk there is a stack of books that are toppling over. The same situation as my wardrobe, and window. That’s the elephant in my