Waking up without an alarm. Having a room to myself. Seeing family.
Being home is pretty fabulous. It’s interesting coming back, because I know I’ve changed and gone through stuff, but I come back and my room remains the same. Every time I come home, my room is how I left from the time before, and this coming from the Sarah who cleaned her room after the HSC was over.
I’ve got new pictures on the walls and new photos in frames, but other than that, it remains to be…my room. The room that I’ve had friends over in when I was fourteen, the room I studied in when I was seventeen. The room I returned to every day after school, the room we painted when we first moved here when I was twelve.
The room hasn’t changed, but I have. I have a life that my room hasn’t met. My blanket has never met my Sydney life, and my Sydney life has never met my blanket. Simple stuff, but oddly impacting the more I dwell on it.
My new friends haven’t been inside this house. They haven’t seen the dark brick walls and the wooden beams on the ceiling. They haven’t seen the wooden floors and the rugs by both of our fireplaces. They haven’t seen the bunting that’s around the place or our fruit trees that are scattered in a paddock. They know I like to read but they haven’t seen my bookcase. They know I like sewing but they haven’t seen anything I’ve sewn, because it’s all here, in my room.
My room. It’s good to be back.