I know I will miss the encompassing wall of yellow with frogs wearing crowns and gowns in the foreground, chosen whilst I was on holiday because I would never have picked it myself. I imagine that one day my room will be whitewashed and lilac, with scribblings and a mosaic of photos on the wall, but for now it is a comfortable dwelling (no matter how childish and ugly) because it is familiar.
The light is always too dim and the mattress perfectly bouncy. Once my head sinks into the blanket and I curl up with a pillow, ‘just resting my eyes’ inevitably becomes a three hour nap. I’ve woken up drenched in sweat from dreamless nights and have sat up startled with cheeks streaked with tears from nightmares quickly forgotten. I’ve sprawled on the wood paneled floor to read and paint whilst listening to music and I’ve watched shadows flit past the starry (glow in the dark) ceiling, trying to match the shapes in motion to the hum of cars and muffled voices deep into the night. Home is an establishment of where things were and are. Or where things weren’t and aren’t. For me it is the heap of things and clutter and disorder that feels right. My desk is forever overflowing with stuff. But I can navigate through my own space. It is my territory and every inch of it is branded with my own memories. Mine.
The other day, I sat on someone else’s bed in a small, tidy room and suddenly felt this strange sense of dislocation and displacement. I realized just how soon I will have to make a new home in another space and I am dreading it. I’ll have only time to rely on to replace the warmth of the old and I’m impatient. But I’m hopeful that one day I’ll have these multiple homes to visit; nests of once upon a time.