I believe that I have rooms for others, inside of me. I have a one-year-older sister, a younger sister, three younger brothers, and mom and dad. My four grand parents and one grand-grandmother, they are all still alive. I have rooms for each one of them. And I collected and stored in it, every single piece of things about what they have, what they did, and what they did to me.
I grew up among those people, who loved me, cared of me, and had fun with me. But at the same time, they were mean to me and they hated me, and shout at me. I shared with them my feelings of the joy of having a doll as a Christmas present, and the hatred about being a nerd in my schools. They were used to be my whole world. As I was in our home, with my parents and sisters and brothers, I thought I have all the things that I could have in the world.
Even though my school days were not very successful, I luckily got some friends that I would never exchange with anything else. One of them, her name is the exactly same with mine. I would never forget when she was transferred from another elementary school in the urban area. I was a student who was very shy and kind of boring, never talk to others but still have pride of myself. No one can notice that I was left for a pee in the middle of class. I was so alone. Since the day she came, my life had been totally changed. It was nothing changed in the surface of my skin, but I can feel that I got a room for someone in my mind, besides my family. It was a pretty room that was filled with many cute memories. She was the first friend ever, who opened my mind.
Living in one’s own life is not always easy. Throughout the life, I created a lot more rooms after I had aware of the existence of a “room,” a room for others. Once it was created, it always had something to fill inside; with the memory of happiness and joy that we shared each other, sometimes with scars or spots. There was no empty room. I had learned that sometimes I had to lock the door and never tried to open and see what is inside again, because it will pain.
In the age of twenty, looking back my life, I numbered how many rooms are left or exist. Surprisingly, not many. Maybe similar number of when I was a child. I wondered why. Is it because I was an isolationist, or I had locked too many doors for myself? Or are there more rooms that were forgotten for so long time, and I even could not remember that is exist?
Having one’s room in my mind is heavy. It means I have a responsibility as an owner of the room. Tenants are never getting satisfied, you know. Maybe that is the reason that I don’t have many rooms. Maybe I just want to flee from that pressure.
Now I am here, America, to study abroad alone. I have seen another different world here. They have a tons of rooms for others in their mind – for me, it is really interesting – but their rooms are tend to be still smaller, compare to the people in my home country. Well, I have to change my mind. Because I have a friend here, who is from my hometown, and who never allows me to have a room in her inside.
Anyways, rent a room for a stranger is not easy. Looking for a person who would live in your room is sucks. By the way, how many rooms are available in your mind?
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