Background: My Write Time

Nearly every day I walk into my house. The place of living for me and my family, all of it being completely run by my egotistical father. He feels as if he has the power and right to tell all of us to be how we should be, and we all resist even my mom. If my dad is home by the time I reach the front door I take a straight trip up to my room without a word except maybe a "Hi!" when I walk through the door just so they acknowledge my presence. If my dad isn't home I will have a drink and a nice chat with my mom. We appreciate each other and get along very well, but when that is done with I take up on a short walk to my room.

As I step along the hard dark wooden and nicely polished floor, I think about how I never feel the wood against my bare feet unless I'm really hungry or need to ask something of my family and that is the only time I ever get to feel that floor. Wow, I'm really detached... all because I don't want to spend time with my father.

When I walk and touch the staircase I could sigh in relief for the familiarity of my own house coming back to me. Now I can move a little faster. At the top of my staircase lit by the lights coming from oh-so-sweet-nature. Oh how I love sitting at the top of my steps with my large dark haired dog. I guess you could say we resemble each other. I think he's the only one in my family that I knows that I like to sit there, because of that I always like to give him a hello when I walk past him to my room down the long shaded white hallway.

When I walk into my room, I have to immediately shut the door behind me... I hate feeling watched. When I leave that door open I get that feeling, that I am being watched. Though sometimes on good shinny days I'll leave it open so my dog can take a trip to say hi to me, though I live in the great-ol'- Pennsylvania weather. We get no shinny days. Moving here from Columbia, South Carolina, that is such a change. When I finally get that door shut I feel a sense of content. I'm happy in my room. I feel at home. I don't in any other part of the house. Once I leave my room, I'm in a stranger's house.

Now that I am home, I must begin my routine. Shuffling my way over my guitar and maybe some flannels I leave on the floor from getting dressed in the morning. I feel like I am following all of the bright red, white and charcoal stripes on my wall... There. I got the lamp on, and I smirked at dim lights. I only like three types of lights, dim light, natural light, or no light at all.

I take a short peak out of my black blinds to see the world outside of my home. Is it nice enough of a day to open my blinds...? Nope. I shut my blinds because of the dreary weather. I don't like looking out to the weather that keeps me inside.

I turn back around and see my guitar laying down on the floor of my room, inside of its black solid casing and the dark reds and blacks that match my walls. I love my guitar, because it is my guitar, bought with my money and always been through my performances and with play outs with my friends. I pick my guitar up and start playing music as I go with no specific direction. It's how I play sing and strumming my heart out.

When I'm done I move on. I move a short distance so I lay on my bed taking deep breathes and massaging my hands because I play until I can't ever stop, always. Closing my eyes and listening to the background music I put on my stereo system. I love it, I have a speaker on each side of my bed, the black clean speakers shout out at me with the sounds I love. They rest on my bookshelves that are mainly filled with limited books on psychology, music and the occasional novel. I don't think I care to read that much as I look at my limited supply.

When I look at my bookshelves I see more music than anything, with a series of guitar accessories, piles of iTunes cards and some small percussion instruments. It’s a lot of who I am... Music, my living soul in lyrics and sound that I create.

Now that I am fully rested I go over to my art table to touch up on some art, I never spend much more than a half hour with my drawings, I'm not nearly as dedicated but I do still like it. I love where my art table is though. I planned out my room so that the table would catch the gleaming eyes of the sun for great lighting, but then again, I don't spend much time there so I move onto my computer. I will use my computer next to anywhere in my room, sitting on the art table, or on top of the chest-of-drawers, or on my bed so I can rest, or on the floor for a hard relaxing time. I am weird like that sometimes, just like the giant furry buffalo hat that I will wear from time to time.

Today, I carry my laptop to the floor with me, it’s a floor day. I want to run my fingers through the soft carpeting again. When looking around on, YouTube, Facebook, Blogger, and Tumblr... It’s my own routine of look at all my favorite stuff and all. I will chuckle through separate videos and posts I see through my day and get touched to by inspirational writings, pictures and songs. I do this all up until I get phone calls and texts from my girlfriends and friends. I rest that way on my bed until I sleep.

I always look to my left when I sleep, I have to face the clock and away from the fan. If that soft breeze glides over my face I will go insane and will never get my nightly rest. If I can't sleep I think of a place that makes me happy. That place is a secret place. That place doesn't even exist yet, but it will.