A Dorm Room: My Second Home

I could not wait to live at college. It seemed as if I had spent years waiting for this moment. I would be free and on my own. I would be able to do whatever I wanted and all within the confines of a homely apartment that I would share with a good friend. This apartment, of course, would be my dorm room and I spent days thinking about it.

I knew that my dorm room would not be spacious, but that would be okay. I still envisioned it as comfortable with lots of space for all of my necessities. Surely, the beds would not have to bunked and of course I would not have to alternate between closet space for my winter and summer apparel. I could see the room in my mind. The sun would flutter in from a big window overlooking a courtyard between dorms where fellow students lounged under shady trees. The walls would be a dim yellow shade, friendly and comforting. The hard floor would be covered in a caramel-shaded rug with soft bristles that would feel like cushions under my bare feet. A soft breeze would blow in at night so that sleeping would be pleasant in the early fall and spring. My roommate and I would have our own privacy. I would be able to place smiling pictures in shiny silver frames and scented, green candles throughout the room with out ever intruding in her personal space. The room would be almost magical. I didnt envision having to clean it or worrying about tiny, brown, pretzel crumbs being caught in my run-down, second-hand couch. Everything would be new, clean, and shiny. In my mind, the sun danced on each and every object in the room almost setting it aglow. Nothing was black or dreary. The room symbolized all my hopes for the new year in college. Not only was it a room for me to sleep, eat, and dress in. It was the center of my freedom, and it wasnt until I set foot in my new palace, that I was cruelly grounded from my dreams.

When I got to the dorm room, I thought it must be a horrible nightmare. The place was cold and dark. It reeked of melancholy and misery. I envisioned countless streams of youth having sloshed through their college existence inside the tiny room. No sun played on the ground. Instead, a dark cloud seemed to rest on all of my belongings. The walls were concrete, and had turned off-white over time. The floor was bare and cold. My roommate and I had to bunk the black metal beds for enough space to even walk around. I had to send my soft winter sweaters home with my parents until I could make room for them. The window overlooked an unfriendly, lumbering, gray fence. At night, we had to set up two, pale, high-powered fans to have enough air to even breathe. Where had the pleasant breeze gone? Where was the sun that was supposed to shine in on me at all times? Why did my roommate and I have to fight over a tiny, square, off-white block of concrete wall to hang a poster or picture on? This was not the room of my dreams. This was a jail cell, and I was determined to break free of it.

After two months, the room is neither that of my dreams nor nightmares. I have made it a second home as best as I can. I have smothered it in every shade of lime green I can find. My roommate and I have painted it in pictures of happy people in every spot that reminiscent melancholy could sprout up. We have a stiff, orange colored rug on the floor that I would not dare walk on in bare feet. We have shiny, new, electrical appliances that remind of us of the comforts of home. The room seems less cold and uninviting. At times, I can even call it friendly and possibly homely. It will never be the castle I had first envisioned it to be, but on particularly sunny days, I can see a trace of the sun playing on my window and I have to smile.