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Things that Rooms Say

One of the greatest frustrations I've experienced when it comes to writing is that when I set out to do it, I usually don't get very much done at all. The creative process usually involves me sitting at my desk, tapping the table as if trying to extract whatever ideas might be burrowing under its nonchalant woody surface, and often shifting over to lean on the hand I'm not leaning on, possibly under the assumption that if the screen in front of me is viewed at a particular angle, magical glowing words will emerged from the sparkling ruins of the screen and present me with an idea.

Another of the greatest frustrations I've experienced when it comes to writing is that I just can't seem to do it in a word processor. This doesn't make much sense at the first thought given my legal history with handwriting, but what I mean here is that I can never seem to write an article or blog entry when I'm trying to do it in a word processor, yet ideas gush out at a rate envied by Asian floods whenever I talk to somebody on Windows Live Messenger. It's the most infuriating sensation to have had a wonderful conversation (Misnomer really. The person on the other end usually just sits there and blinks, and coughs up a one word response like "okay".) with someone, and then to sit and stare at what you've written over the last five minutes only to realize that it would have been a lot more beneficial to your literary ego had you done all of that in a word processor, as opposed to chucking the lot at some bewildered person who really just wants to get on with reading sappy fanfiction.

And the exact thing happened to me not too long ago when I had a conversation with Kylie about rooms. The subject of the conversation was initially how barren and depressed her room looked like after she had taken all of her postcards, posters, poems and alliterations down to accomodate her brother whom she was letting to move in because she was "nice". The subject then shifted to what her brother had in his room and how the very same room that she thought looked dejected would be troubled and deranged given a month's time. And then I commenced my solliloquy regarding rooms.

Rooms seem to say things, and while this is the sort of thing that could very well earn me a jacket with comically long sleeves I don't mean this in the literal sense. Rooms are mostly mute, but a quality they do seem to possess is the ability to convey a certain message based on the things in them.

Even an empty room says something, usually something something along the lines of "Hello, I'm empty. I don't really like this."
A room painted a eye-eviscerating pink would probably convey the message that it desires is the state's recognition of its freedom, while a room painted a relaxing coffee colour with patterned lampshades, a somewhat obese looking sofa possibly responsible for the obesity of people, and with all floral curtains drawn urges you in a reserved, butlery sort of voice to "let me take your hat and jacket for you sir, just sit down and I'll fetch you your loungue jacket." Rooms, as a whole including the things that are in them, seem to tell you precisely what their purpose is.

My hostel room, for instance, seems to constantly remind me in a mental voice befitting of humorless public relations officer that I am currently residing in an institution, and that I should probably take a rest so that I may resume my studies the next day and achieve great things and possibly break a few ethics along the way. The overall demeanour of the room tells me that I'm in a building built for the purposes of educational accomodation, and that I can't deny it. But precisely what it is that gives me that impression, I can't quite say. Perhaps it's the stock-like feeling off the room, so much that you can imagine thousands of the same room being churned out in automated factories in China and shipped over in plastic packages, but overall it does say "Sleep here so you can study later."

My hostel room also occasionally tells me it's probably time for the 10:35 role call, though it's a while later that I find out that that room happens to have actually come from China, and enjoys sleeping with nothing but striped underwear on. About a minute later I find out that that was my roommate, and not really much of a room at all.

And amidst all this imaginary conversations with accomodation I'm not quite sure why rooms seem to say anything at all. Maybe it's the accumulated features of the room by way of our contribution that speak of our personalities (or hygeine standards), which end up conveying a message, or in the case of an empty room, the lack of it. Perhaps a room is the best example of the accumulated visible effects of things that we leave behind, slowly piling together in corners the location of which you can't explain, though you're pretty sure you once knew why those things were there.

I'm not really sure how to conclude this, but I'm going to anyway by stopping right here, and might possibly hit the sack (no other word for this blast door of a mattress), and be reminded its quality.