I enter the distilled, cold, silence. I can see the particles of dust float around- they move quite slow. Why is it that whenever I open the curtain they appear? It is lonely, and boring.The walls are a boring shade of brown- caramel. That is the theme of my room. Brown and dull. The only thing that’s slightly appealing is the string of lights loosely hung on the ceiling, and I don’t even use them that often anymore”. The photographs on the wall just get repetitive and even though they are supposed to add “pizazz” as some would call it, they do the exact opposite. I am exhausted from staring at the lifeless paintings and sick of looking at the photographs that are of someone else's family.

It is mainly always clean. The curtain is pulled up allowing the sunshine to fill the emptiness of the full room. A queen sized bed crowds most of the floor space with monotonous sheets to match the monotonous walls. Two dressers are placed across from each other, sandwiching the bed. The first dresser is where I watch “Spongebob Squarepants” while I write essays the night before they are due. It is a matte dark chocolate kind of color with notebooks constantly stacked on it. The second is like a glossy syrup with little cubbies in it filled with hair care products and perfumes. This one is right by the door on the left side of her bed, just more than half of the length of the mattress and frame. This is also where the jewelry box full of sparkling fake chains and stones are. Positioned in the middle is a sky blue record player. Most of what is played is what I blasted back at home on the speaker while cleaning. But at night, while everything is still, all the lights are off with the exception of my bedside lamp, this is the moment in which I play soft instruments to help sooth my nerves while I drift off to sleep.

Along where her lamp sits, a roll of toilet paper stands for the preparation of allergies in the morning. The aroma of Bath and Body Works surrounding the room. Its scent is strongest from the side table.

In the middle of the ceiling, a fan is constantly on but does not do any good unless on the highest setting. A vent is placed on the ceiling just three feet away from the fan. It makes the room cold even during the winter. Below the vent is a closet with white doors that hide her overly used shoes, organized hand-me-down T-shirts, and on the shelf are boxes from when we moved here and my books that stand untouched after being read. Next to the closet is a rack where my hats are stationary. Rarely are they ever used but more so interchanged to match the seasons . During the summer, the two caps that hang from the top are designed with the mascot that matches the dog tags of my passed companion. The bottom two are the bucket hats which are worn the most to keep out the sun. The floors in which houses all of the furniture are a tawny shade of brown to contrast the caramel of the walls; a clunk sound is made every time I enter the room with my big boots. I am constantly cleaning; it almost feels like it is never clean because I’m stuck in the same tiny space. Cleaning rituals consist of sweeping, vacuuming, mopping, and in result of those motions make the hardwood floor slippery. 

These windows are what make the room bright even when the curtain is pulled down. Light seeps through the cracks on the sides and glides right in, which makes it hard to sleep at night sometimes. At the top of the window is a skinny decorated tapestry, one designed to mimic an Aztec style. Underneath the tapestry lies the off white zigzag curtain and at the very bottom in the middle a little button is used to lift it, allowing the sunlight to bounce off the walls. 

My room may be bright, but hers is dark inside her jar and full of her own dust that sits heavy; her dust that sits lifeless. She is forever sealed away but is still able to feel the breeze coming from the fan’s swift blades. Swift blades that collect dust and never to be cleaned from that dust due to my negligence. she sits on the glossy, syrup like dresser with a picture of her and me when we were both young; when she was still breathing. That photograph shows her laying her head on my lap during our long car ride back home, and me, so happy to hold such a big fluffy dog.