My Favourite Painting
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My safe haven, a place I can completely be myself in, a place I can unwind, sit back and just relax: My room. The only space in the house I can call my own. It holds all my belongings, all my sentimental objects that hold dear memories. It holds things that get me going from day to day. It’s the only place in my house that is completely mine. There are visible signs of being a personal space. Sentimental objects are lying around as decoration, posters, pictures all sorts of things that will be cherished for years to come.
There are four walls, all painted white. On the three of the four walls I have large posters hanging of the ocean and waves. The fourth wall is home to my closet, which holds girls most precious things: her clothes. There is a black metal framed bed on the right side a large flat screen television on the left. Along with my television, my brown oak desk is located on the left wall. It is fairly neat with a few exceptions of a couple of items of clothing scattered about. Sitting on the floor where I feel most comfortable I feel the softness of my carpet. A beige colored carpet with a few mishaps visible here and there. The walls have the feeling of fresh paint, the ceiling a rough touch of the swirls made by an unknown material to me. I smell clean air and perfume. Mostly Chanel Chance, my favorite.
Taste is a hard sense to describe, being that I’ve never seen a way to taste my room. I can taste the smell of the casserole my mom is cooking from the kitchen; it makes my mouth water at times. I hear the low buzz of my laptop, and the soft music playing in the background, with the tendency to switch to fast, loud blaring music. Depending on what my music player wants to play at the time. I hear the television in the living room, and cars buzzing past on the street. I hear the neighbor’s kids
My safe haven, a place I can completely be myself in, a place I can unwind, sit back and just relax: My room. The only space in the house I can call my own. It holds all my belongings, all my sentimental objects that hold dear memories. It holds things that get me going from day to day. It’s the only place in my house that is completely mine. There are visible signs of being a personal space. Sentimental objects are lying around as decoration, posters, pictures all sorts of things that will be cherished for years to come.
There are four walls, all painted white. On the three of the four walls I have large posters hanging of the ocean and waves. The fourth wall is home to my closet, which holds girls most precious things: her clothes. There is a black metal framed bed on the right side a large flat screen television on the left. Along with my television, my brown oak desk is located on the left wall. It is fairly neat with a few exceptions of a couple of items of clothing scattered about. Sitting on the floor where I feel most comfortable I feel the softness of my carpet. A beige colored carpet with a few mishaps visible here and there. The walls have the feeling of fresh paint, the ceiling a rough touch of the swirls made by an unknown material to me. I smell clean air and perfume. Mostly Chanel Chance, my favorite.
Taste is a hard sense to describe, being that I’ve never seen a way to taste my room. I can taste the smell of the casserole my mom is cooking from the kitchen; it makes my mouth water at times. I hear the low buzz of my laptop, and the soft music playing in the background, with the tendency to switch to fast, loud blaring music. Depending on what my music player wants to play at the time. I hear the television in the living room, and cars buzzing past on the street. I hear the neighbor’s kids