The wooden floor is pale, yet full of texture. It is

partially covered by a Berber rug which is in need of a

stretching. In an array of gloss and semi-gloss, shades of

off-white cover the four walls and their baseboards

speckled only by an occasional paint chip or faded

fingerprint. Entire sections are hidden by nearly a dozen

posters of varying sizes and content, mostly expressing

political ideas, or taste in music. Shelves protrude from a

wall adjacent to the door– topped by a number of

knickknacks and decorative accessories. Yet nothing

obscures the whiteness of these walls quite as

magnificently as the furnishings which fill the room.

Standing at the doorway looking inward, I see the twin-size

bed directly across from me against the far wall. Its

sheets and blankets are ruffled and in dire need of being

straightened. Two pillows rest at opposite ends– covered

by cases made of turquoise cloth. This colour forms a

pleasant contrast with the darker blues of the bedspread.

At one corner I see my sheet struggling to maintain its

grip on a mattress– a salmon-coloured item that doesn’t

seem to match anything at all.

The dresser is tall and quite old– probably a

‘hand-me-down’ from one of my older siblings who has since

left home for college or some other endeavour. It stands

across from the foot of my bed and perhaps four more feet

to its left. Its brown wooden finish appears to be

randomly-stained with an assortment of dusts and the syrup

of sodas left upon its surface over the years. A similar

piece — a stand — sits idly against a wall opposite the

foot of my bed. Upon it rests a 13″ black-and-white

television screen with dotted speaker holes carved out of

its front. Oddly, three video cassettes sit next to the

television– but there is no video cassette player in sight.

In my room there is no stereo, nor radio, yet a sound of

content silence fills my space.. I hear the whistle of a

dishwasher nearby in the kitchen and the cyclical whirring

of an air conditioner somewhere behind the expanse of walls

that surrounds me. Occasionally, the crackle of laughter or

the murmur of conversation will reach me from another room.

As I inhale, I can smell the fleeting aroma of potpourri

sprays– their specific fragrance unknown. In my bed, I

smell the toasty warmth of newly-dried sheets and by my

television, my nose can sense the odour of electronic dust.

The scent of vegetables cooking seems to be floating into

my room, filling my sense of smell and arousing my taste

buds as well. As the scent of a meal grows stronger, I

become more and more distracted by ideas of what might be

in the kitchen. This urge to explore another room in the

house motivates me to put down my leaky ball-point, to

rise, and to consider the other incredible experiences that

await my senses.