Her room, about 30 steps less heaven high, stood as a petite citadel to her. Mostly pink, vertical lines 360 degrees paint, butterfly-embellished.
Closest to the door is a vanity mirror whose origin is not obvious. Now it’s made up of accessories; bottles, glass and synthetic; images of people most dear to her, randomly posted. Thus, wood or metal, the furniture appears gentle.
She keeps her clothes in a multiple-square-door cabinet that touches the floor more than anything else. On top are various faces of her world -- old and new, all present in her time. Underneath are two flat baskets – one where she buries her collection of white caps, away from frequent bro borrowers; another where she keeps her laundry, which I doubt the folds to ever reach the brim in a week.
Her ceiling is not too high for it rests under the attic roof.
She whines about the rain water that passes through it on wet season. It left water marks like roots of a dead tree imprinted aimlessly on the dirty-white coating.
Nevertheless, the room speaks an imperial language like the spherical see-through curtain cloth that surrounds the crown of her bed. She’s got her full-size pillows, not less than 5, crowded at the apex of her cradle; a pink, undersize one leading the queue.
I cringe at the thought of how I can lucidly commit to memory the details of her place. I shrink as I feel her in a room where she owns not only to herself. I feel the horror of coexistence.
I smiled at the risk that she takes.
She rules me now.
Closest to the door is a vanity mirror whose origin is not obvious. Now it’s made up of accessories; bottles, glass and synthetic; images of people most dear to her, randomly posted. Thus, wood or metal, the furniture appears gentle.
She keeps her clothes in a multiple-square-door cabinet that touches the floor more than anything else. On top are various faces of her world -- old and new, all present in her time. Underneath are two flat baskets – one where she buries her collection of white caps, away from frequent bro borrowers; another where she keeps her laundry, which I doubt the folds to ever reach the brim in a week.
Her ceiling is not too high for it rests under the attic roof.
She whines about the rain water that passes through it on wet season. It left water marks like roots of a dead tree imprinted aimlessly on the dirty-white coating.
Nevertheless, the room speaks an imperial language like the spherical see-through curtain cloth that surrounds the crown of her bed. She’s got her full-size pillows, not less than 5, crowded at the apex of her cradle; a pink, undersize one leading the queue.
I cringe at the thought of how I can lucidly commit to memory the details of her place. I shrink as I feel her in a room where she owns not only to herself. I feel the horror of coexistence.
I smiled at the risk that she takes.
She rules me now.
Comments
But, come on now. A PINK room?? As pink as the image painted in my mind by your words.
Well. I'm pretty sure, it's not my room you're talking about. :)) hehe.
mwah!