Mirror mirror on the wall

From pink to purple to gray to white

I’ve been looking in the mirror more than usual. I’m not quite sure why, though. My mirror is on the inside of my closet door in my dorm room, so I have to open the door to see myself. It stays open most of the time now, so, between tasks and movements, I can see my face and body as if searching for change in the past thirty minutes. The mirror instantly fills with blood and flesh, with soul and spirit. I envision my inner thoughts and thighs and insecurities slipping out of my mouth, as if I am in Sharpie onto the rented mirror, in a temporary room I can’t call my own. I wait for the fines to come when they come to see my room after I have moved– the tears up and down the windows from my cat’s claws, the stain on the carpet, the places greyish paint has been scratched off, the piece of the wall I ripped out and taped a poster over. I imagine their faces when they walk into my room and see it all, if they’ll laugh at the small traces of cat in every corner of my 12x15 room. I look at the ceiling, staring at a ceiling light that’s only been turned on a handful of times in my eight months of occupancy. To prefer smaller light sources seems pretty universal among most college students. I take pictures off the wall after my mom reminds me to start packing. The emptiness of the wall frightens me, making my room feel less like home than I’d like it to for the next couple of weeks. I try to adjust to it, and the next morning, I tape every picture back to the wall. Change is good, sure, but not without reflection. 

I play typing games and take out the trash, even though it’s only halfway full. I organize my sock drawer, and then fold my shirts again, knowing they’ll be perfectly sorted for less than a day. I find ways to postpone, ways to neglect, ways to forget. Only when I stop moving for just a second, only when there is nothing in front of me but paper and pen, can I attempt some sort of anatomy on what I perceive to be shortcomings. Only in the absence of motion can I give away so much, just to be my own worst antagonist. I used to think that this absence was my favorite way to exist. I thought I could only imagine intelligently and write eloquently in the quiet. I still can exist in lone settings without feeling lonely, and I can dance it out on my own and lay on the carpet with music blaring in my ears. I love to change twelve times in the morning and leave clothes coating the floor. I love to wake up slowly, make strange snacks in the afternoon, and not have to explain my movements and activities to anyone. 

This is the first time I have lived in my own space. I had my room back home, but it was right next to my parents, and there was never a sense of loneliness there. Even though I am an only child, I never felt complete control of any space. That feeling, though, never took away from my creative freedom and very stubborn interior design visions, from when I was a little kid– my lovely parents helped me change my walls from pink to purple to grey to white, all within eighteen years. I painted and drew on the walls, painted furniture, and frequently rotated out duvet covers and decorations. 

In my freshman year of college, I lived with three roommates. decorating our space together was a lovely outward expression of who we were. I miss that room and living with my friends, but ultimately, I knew that I needed my own space. Now, I sleep in the quiet, and I come home to everything in the same place I left it, the room the same temperature, the mess the same. After hours sitting in a room that is sometimes dimly lit, and rarely flooded with sunlight, I look forward to spending time with my friends, in any capacity. Whether someone comes over to borrow a shirt and vent, or we decide to sit in the sun go to the movies, or walk around town, they are the ones who remind me of what it feels like to be full.

Conversations are messy and tangled and fantastical and tangible, and I admire the way they speak with eloquence and humor, with confidence and with vulnerability. I see how someone can always pick up on when another isn’t their normal self, even if this change is barely discernable. Not only is my joy more real externally when I am around my friends (it always has been), but that joy takes shape in a way that feels like it matters. I knew this back home when I found the people I know I’ll spend the rest of my life with and realized that no relationship could compare to the friendships that are my roots, the ones who are the reason I cannot wait to return to my first home. It’s all coming back to me now. There’s nothing like a day of mundane, of work and class and time alone in my room. Not because of the time I spent alone, but because of the feeling I get running to a friend’s room in the dark, which oftentimes, is already full of people I love. Relationships are more nuanced than the light and volume that they convey. But, with the end of the school year one week away, I cannot help but focus on anything about these people outside of the good we have done for one another over the past few months. 

Sometimes, their confidence and talent are intimidating. I wonder if I will have the same capacity for creativity they do, I reflect on the sounds of their music and the ways they speak. I declare writing as my ‘thing’ and when I read theirs, I wonder if I should have claimed this art as mine. At the same time, I think about how lucky I am to be surrounded by people so good, so creative, so ambitious, that I envy them sometimes. Each of my friends, scattered across of the country, are insightful and charismatic people. My admiration for them is immovable. 

When I look in the mirror, when I am alone with my body with the urge to criticize every inch of it, I remind myself of who is looking back at me. Because of those who know my mind and soul, I can exist in renderings of myself I have yet to acknowledge. 

As always, thank you for reading, and for your patience. Sweet dreams!