<p>Ok so I've written about 5 different drafts that range from hurricane Sandy to a death in my family, and I decided to do something simpler so I wrote this. I'm not sure about it but I wanted to include more about myself than an event, so, here it is! I need criticism!! Also, any thoughts on using contractions in an essay? is it too colloquial? And is 620 words too much? (i went into detail on this one)</p>
<p>My room is a place Ive spent the last seventeen years of my life in, its an inanimate thing which knows me better than any one person. As I look around, I realize I can say a million and one things about everything in my room. The walls are an electric lime green, my favorite color which I wanted to paint my room since I was seven years old and had to beg my parents for years just to be able to do it because my mom thought it was too bright. On my walls I have posters of my favorite bands, and Ive taped up the tickets from every concert Ive ever been to. I have a dresser full of clothes, clothes that have been stained and beaten up from experience, clothes that I refuse to get rid of because they have theyve been with me through so many memories. There are two huge shelves stacked with a conglomeration of items that range from old, beaten up paintbrushes, old photographs, and my favorite perfumes. My collection of art supplies take up about four shelves because I love trying all different mediums.
My queen sized bed is scattered with papers, sketchbooks, pens and textbooks; even though I have a desk on the other side of the room, my bed is my work station. I have photos in frames from when I was a baby until now, pictures of me with friends I no longer talk to, family that has passed, and the people who I love. On the shelf across from my bed there is a lumpy vase I made in art class when I was eleven, painted pink and orange. That vase is the ugliest thing I own, but I cant ever bring myself to get rid of it. I have a table near my closet with my whole collection of makeup, some of which has spilled and stained the table with all different colors like an accidental work of art. Next to it is my closet, where I keep all my portfolios full of artwork that Ive made since I was ten. I have piles of sketchbooks and drawings and paintings. Sometimes Ill drag out the whole collection and look through them and think about how much Ive grown as an artist and a person since each of these works. Above those piles, I have a rack of hanging clothes where my mom has kept my first communion dress, my middle school graduation cap and gown, and soon enough, my high school graduation cap and gown.
I actually find it amazing that my room is such an accurate representation of myself. Ive never even thought about the way Ive assimilated myself into a room and made it completely my own; all these little, various items have an importance to me, even my lumpy vase and my messy bed. My room is a mess, to my mothers dismay, but thats because Im too busy living and working to keep it organized. This one moment Ive taken to look around my room has been like a short timeline of my life. Its the place where Im most comfortable, the place where I sleep, and think, and work. Its the place I sit in as I write this essay. Soon, Im going to have to leave this room. Ill have to take down all the posters off my walls and pack up all the clothes and photographs and move on to the next chapter of my life. I know that no matter where I am, or what I decide to do with my life, I will make it my own, just like this little habitat of mine.</p>