The wooden floor is pale, yet full of texture. It is partially covered by a Berber rug which is in need of a stretching. In an array of gloss and semi-gloss, shades of off-white cover the four walls and their baseboards speckled only by an occasional paint chip or faded fingerprint. Entire sections are hidden by nearly a dozen posters of varying sizes and content, mostly expressing political ideas, or taste in music. Shelves protrude from a wall adjacent to the door-- topped by a number of knickknacks and decorative accessories. Yet nothing obscures the whiteness of these walls quite as magnificently as the furnishings which fill the room.
Standing at the doorway looking inward, I see the twin-size bed directly across from me against the far wall. Its sheets and blankets are ruffled and in dire need of being straightened. Two pillows rest at opposite ends-- covered by cases made of turquoise cloth. This color forms a pleasant contrast with the darker blues of the bedspread. At one corner I see my sheet struggling to maintain its grip on a mattress-- a salmon-colored item that doesn't seem to match anything at all.
The dresser is tall and quite old-- probably a 'hand-me-down' from one of my older siblings who has since left home for college or some other endeavor. It stands across from the foot of my bed and perhaps four more feet to its left. Its brown wooden finish appears to be randomly-stained with an assortment of dusts and the syrup of sodas left upon its surface over the years. A similar piece -- a stand -- sits idly against a wall opposite the foot of my bed. Upon it rests a 13" black-and-white television screen with dotted speaker holes carved out of its front. Oddly, three video cassettes sit next to the television-- but there is no video cassette player in sight.
In my room there is no stereo, nor radio, yet a sound of content silence fills my space.. I hear the whistle of a dishwasher nearby in the kitchen and the cyclical whirring of an air conditioner somewhere behind the expanse of walls that surrounds me. Occasionally, the crackle of laughter or the murmur of conversation will reach me from another room.
As I inhale, I can smell the fleeting aroma of potpourri sprays-- their specific fragrance unknown. In my bed, I smell the toasty warmth of newly-dried sheets and by my television, my nose can sense the odor of electronic dust. The scent of vegetables cooking seems to be floating into my room, filling my sense of smell and arousing my taste buds as well. As the scent of a meal grows stronger, I become more and more distracted by ideas of what might be in the kitchen. This urge to explore another room in the house motivates me to put down my leaky ball-point, to rise, and to consider the other incredible experiences that await my senses.