In the post I posted about 10 seconds ago, I mentioned something about essays we get assigned. So I thought, what the hell, why not let you see my latest essay? It's boring, but it might give you some insight into me.

My Life’s Watchers

These four walls are rose with an undertone of purple to them. The have been freshly painted and appear flawless, except to eyes that seem determined to find fault. The walls are stretched out, bloated despite holding a comfortable amount of furniture. The room enclosed is almost bursting with memories.

Dirty clothes and the occasional damp towel adorn the floor. You could almost believe that one would be capable of losing a small dog in the room. Yet the occupant seems to instinctively know where to find each item. It almost seems that in the chaos is order, that in the madness is method.

The walls are decorated sparingly, each item selected with careful consideration. There’s the sketch done by a pavement portraitist on the day that the room’s occupant was finally old enough to gain access to the forbidden world of bummer cars. On the opposite wall are the words to ‘The Impossible Dream’ that one tries to live their life by.

Next to that is a small printers’ tray inhabited by a frog, a ladybug, a penguin, a cat in a trash can and by a few mice hiding amidst a bowl of grapes. There are also two fairies housed in the printers’ tray, gazing at the three fairies floating in the air along side a dolphin’s tear. Besides that, there are only two large posters – one of an endearing puppy – a small poster and a mirror for checking where one lies on the beauty and neatness scale that day.

Three chairs populate the room, and not one of them is like the other. One is a comfortable cream armchair, bought with the intention of sitting in it whilst reading. Instead it has become a glorified closet with a few pretty cushions upon it. The others are a black recliner that is nothing more that a place for pillows and a faded blue desk chair, where one sits whilst tying one’s shoes.

These four walls have been witness to tears, fears and joys. The room enclosed is protector, confidante and teacher. Its bed has watched over sleepless nights spent agonizing over choices made, opportunities lost. The small table is littered with knickknacks, each with its own tale. A lamp with refined elegance had lit the path to different worlds, each perfectly sculpted by their author.

Years have snuck quietly by within this room. Secrets have been shared and conversations held, while the walls nosily eavesdropped. They have listened during the times that the silence has been shattered by screams or tears. News of all life’s highs and lows have eventually reached these walls, even though very few of them took place within the room itself.

Yet the walls are content to be in the background, watching a life being lived.