Today I woke up to cloudy weather. Properly isolated and rather aimless, I cleaned my room.

A transition, an interrogation

In the beginning, I slept in my parents’ room. Once I grew old enough, I moved into my own room. And once my grandparents moved out, I moved into my sister's old room.

As a result of shifting spaces, this room belonged (belongs?) to more than me. As I rummaged through the cracks, I found DVDs in a language that often escapes me (Mandarin, my grandparents’?), notes in another's handwriting (my sister's?), and CDs in genres outside my taste (my parents’?). I wouldn't call these things “mine,” yet I felt sad throwing them away, as if simply their company meant something to me.

A collage, an edit

My sister's old art hung on the walls. With her approval, I delicately tore the pieces off and transferred them onto the door of her current room.

Association and organization breed meaning. This idea resurfaces from an old video essay as I tape the art to the door. Previously sparse decorations, the art, now clustered so closely together, comes off wildly differently: in my mind, a small celebration of my sister's artistic merit.

A clearing, an individuation

Now only “mine” remains in “my” room. I could put up my degrees, maybe stick a poster above the mirror. I have the freedom to claim this as “my room.” Imprecise words.