The Soul in My Room

Every so often I'm in the middle of doing something in my room when suddenly I stop and leave the room, and I come back in like a ghost. I pretend I'm a stranger and I'm not allowed to touch anything, but I'm afforded a rare glimpse of somebody else's life - I see a whole soul encoded in its material arrangement - the clothes on the floor, the books on the shelf, the posters on the wall, the clutter on the desk.

And I love it. I'm so happy for all the dust and the patterns and the possessions and the thoughtfulness and the thoughtlessness that is still me even beyond my flesh and bones.

There's lots of red and black and white. That's my favourite colour scheme. That's the colour of the poster and the DVDs and the bed, and three delightful new juggling clubs in the corner. They are still in their wrappers - to preserve their newborn status - but they have already been used, and already the red one has a scratch on it. I am sure it is the sign of much fruitful use to come. On the shelf above my desk is the Frederic Chopin boxset and book an grammar that form my attempt at intellectualism, and my Shaun of the Dead DVD and Guitar Hero games that don't.

The whole place is littered with important looking books that try to make me seem a brainbox on subjects from quantum mechanics to meteorology. Even so, here on my desk is an old report I did where I've said something misleading, if not just wrong, about the Brillouin function. There are quite a lot of chocolate wrappers here and there. I should probably tidy up. There's a guitar in the corner that excuses have forbidden me from touching. There are some old grapes in here too, that I've been trying not to admit to for a while.

Amongst the failures are also the successes. In a corner of the room sits another report I wrote, with the most stunningly amazing mark on it I have ever received. My juggling balls are looking pretty tattered. I can do some amazing tricks now I couldn't do a year ago. Shoes, worn and comfortable, are resting on the floor in wait until the next time they have to take me out. A big, heavy book on life, the universe and everything has had an impressive two thirds of it safely partitioned from the unseen part by a beautiful shiny bookmark.

The best part of being a ghost in my own room is the fresh perspective it brings. As I regard the things around me I realise I understand more about them than any stranger could. I realise I've extended my soul into the space around me. I like my room. It's pretty cool.