Self Portrait No. 7 (Final year college project 2011)
I was 15 when I got my new room (our new room, shared with my sister) and I could choose the colours. Now it's a disaster - who asked a 15 year-old to pick colours for her room? She wore super-wide flares, baggy tshirts and listened to System of a Down. It's royal purple - which is fine. But it's also royal blue and sparkly purple - and it's tiny. It doesn't take a genius to realise that dark colours in a small room are by far one of the worst idea anyone could have (besides wearing leggings with a short top - that's just hidious)
My room now a haunting memory of everything I haven't achieved. I come home to it to be reminded I'm not some metropolitan, independent butterfly; it's disorganised, undefined - completely undecided as to what it's trying to be so trying to be everything. Everything and nothing.
The stairs, four walls and ceiling of my attic room encapsulate every insecurity I've managed to lock away, locked up in a tower. I emerge having pulled myself together and closing the door behind me so no can see in. No-one gets in, hardly anybody has seen inside. Frankly, I'm embarrassed by it. It's just a wardrobe with a bed in it. That, and piles and piles of sentimentality.
Scary grown-up things seemed slightly easier knowing I was still going back to curl up and hide in the same place I have for the passed 7 years (great, now I feel old). There's some sick reassurance in that. Feeling like I shouldn't feel relieved to be there, but I can't help it. The last thing I have to change to really pull myself out of the rut I was run into is my room. I know all too well nothing has really changed until it's gone - until it's different. Not until it feels like my room, as opposed to somewhere I'm used to going...
... can't I just paint it grey?