Behind that door is my bedroom. A space which I have occupied for over 20 years. Its walls demarcate the boundaries of my sole sovereign territory in this world: a place where I may do as I please, can always return, and am sure to be safe.
All that lies behind that door is utterly me: books, photos, cds, clothes, shoes, and an assorted tools and materials to create with. There is a bed, a bookshelf, a desk, a chair and a wardrobe.
But I am now 28. Behind that door is a space filled with frustration and restlessness. Amongst the lingering shadows of who I've been, stifled dreams are strewn across the walls and they pool on the floor. I am often absent; returning only to change, occassionally sleep and otherwise leave, at almost every given chance.
Behind that door could be anything, but at the same time, the possibilities have already been decided.