Sleepwalking my way through life: Movie reference week!



Movie reference week!

Let me set the scene for you.

The white wooden door swings open without a squeak, light glinting off the shining gloss, revealing the room within. The walls are incredibly bare and incredibly beige. The soft carpet is a burgundy colour – some sections lighter than others where sunlight hit – and it is riddled with deep impressions that serve as monuments to the heavy furniture that once rested in them. The drawers and wardrobe stand solitarily, white and silent, as does the radiator – with its few splatters of dried in coke.

And there is a bed, in the centre of the room, not touching any wall, holding a disconcerted boy.

What happened here? Did a disaster hit? Did a malicious force break its way into the room to sweep away any trace of individuality? Oh how I wish I could say it was; how I wish I could live in fear of a monster that caused so much destruction and trauma. But I am sad to admit that all this – what I can only call – devastation was caused by a singular man, and his paintbrush.

All of my possessions had to be hidden in preparation for his arrival; my clothes, my books, my DVDs all had to be piled into the looming wardrobe, just in case they were in his way. I complied with reluctance, knowing that a newly decorated room would provide a quicker sale on the house and therefore a quicker transition to the flat. So, this morning, I hid the rest of my belongings with a sigh and headed downstairs. A few hours later I came back up and found myself speechless at the change that had been forced upon my room. The walls had gone from yellow to beige, the ceiling went from cream to white, and this was the first time I truly realised how empty it was. I heard my breath echo off the walls and I looked on, aghast at what had become of my room.

Everything was so different from my usual mess of a room, but it was the walls that shocked me the most. Beige! The walls – my walls – were beige! I ran a hand over the now dry paint, my jaw hanging open as I felt the smoothness of the wall. The yellow was gone. The happy, cheery, warm yellow that proudly displayed its many scars of fourteen years worth of blue tack and drawing pins, was gone. A dull, lifeless beige took its place. Beige. Even as I say it I cannot believe it to be true. No one will love beige, no one will smile broadly when the sun lights up their beige room. Beige will be liked, beige will be accepted, tolerated, but beige will never be loved.

As the plans for moving out progress and accelerate, I find myself becoming more detached from the house. The bathroom is no longer my bathroom, the kitchen is no longer my kitchen, the seat on the couch is no longer my seat on the couch. I suppose it had to happen at some point, where my room has suddenly become the room where I sleep, where I keep my things. I am wondering with eager curiosity whether or not the feeling of my room, my sanctuary, will ever come back.

Until then, I think I will browse the Ikea catalogue for a nice neat pile of shit to populate my new room.
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