living in your childhood bedroom as a twenty something

For some reason, when I was twelve, I decided that it was alright to paint my walls with a neon blue color, and of course sponge paint it with the least compatible lavender at Sherwin Williams.  I probably thought I was creative. I probably thought, “OH, my two favorite colors, let’s put them BOTH on the walls.” So now, moved back home, I sit in my childhood bedroom, soaking in the regret of that once glorious decision.  

There is something so timeless, though, about the room you grew up in.  There are photos sticky tacked on the walls of people you spent five minutes with.  There are posters of former idols (for me, Michelle Kwan, Tara Lipinski, and Nancy Kerrigan; I mean, everyone worshiped Olympic figure skaters, right?) and random magazine clippings strewn on the walls.  

Sitting in my room, the room that has remained the same over the past three years, I realize just how much I have changed.  I have let go of some things, let go of others, and held on even tighter to most. 

For now, I am content with splotchy, awkwardly contrasted colors on my wall. 

For now. 


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