My room

Writing exercise – seminar / 19.01.2011

My room in halls is big. I have the biggest and quietest one in this hallway.  I’m also lucky that I don’t face the main road, but I can still hear the sirens. Last week I heard a loud crash. The whole floor vibrated. It sounded like a robot fell from the sky. I’ve had the windows closed so that I can focus on the three most important things: my laptop, music and tea.

When it gets too much, I lie on my bed until it hurts. The coil springs press against my ribs.

It’s quiet now, despite the fighting cats outside. Virginia Woolf writes about one’s own room – and this is my room, a manifestation of my privacy, creativity, and loneliness. It feels like I’m married to my head. Where am I really? In my room? In my head? Or in a story? I forgot what was going on outside. I stuck irrational sentences on my wall so that my room talks to me. I put up posters on the wall, showing twisted art by Giger and Bacon. The devil, disfigured faces and reptilian humanoids.

And a to-do-list right in front of me that says: “Write!”

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