Cleaning my room? I don’t think so …

1 04 2010

Everyone has a room that they call their own. I have one. My room is MY room and I can do whatever I want in it. In my room there is a floor, but it cannot be seen with the naked eye. To see my floor, you must dig for days and days in an ocean of clothes and other inanimate items. That is the way that I like it though. I like my room as a messy, cosy little hole that I can bury myself in after a long day at school. No one tends to bother me when I’m in my sanctuary of warmth because no one wants to lay eyes on my disorganised, cluster of mangled objects. The number of times a parent has to say, “Clean your room!” or “Tidy up that mess!” Then there’s the… “No more MSN for a week, young lady,  if you don’t get that room of yours organised.” I think every child alive has heard that one before. I know I definitely have. Numerous times actually. But I don’t think that parents completely understand the true meaning of a teenager’s room. My teenager’s room is a place where I can cry in; a place where I can release my deepest darkest secrets; a place where everything I do is seen only by me. It’s a specific area that I can have friends over to, so we can laugh for hours about nothing. A room holds so many memories which are portrayed through the mess we make. And when a parent asks me to clean it up, it’s like saying: rip up your photo album. I do admit, however, that sometimes a clean refuge is nice to come home to, but then I realise, “I didn’t clean this!” so it was obviously someone else. And when I realise someone else has been inside my safe haven, and moved my stuff, it bothers me tremendously. Lottie




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