My room is a photo album of the bricks that form the walls of my body,
Each a Kodak moment of my life.
The walls are painted gray,
Because one day not so long ago I learned how faded the line between black and white really were.
Spaces on my bookshelf are left empty,
Because I am afraid if they fill up so will my mind and I don’t want to stop learning.
Piles of instruments line the floor,
Most of which I cannot play, but love to hear, to feel.
I have three lamps.
Each giving me a new perspective as the shadows in my room twist and form figures.
Piles of books like towers looming over me.
The constant reminder that I will never get done reading,
Which isn’t a bad thing.
Each title a part of my past or future.
My life is made up of broken pencils and half-written sentences,
Holding me back.
Each word I write drags its self onto my walls,
Framing an image of my mind.
The pictures always tuning out blurry, but I don’t care.
I never cared,
Because one day the pictures will become clear…
…and I would have built myself into a grand castle.
Bricks to turn to gold,
As soon I enter my room.