My Paradise

by J. Jungbluth

Four pale blue walls surround me. Lying on my back I stare at my star-spackled ceiling. The dim light changes my ceiling to a universe. The million glow-in-the-dark stars help this transformation.

This room is where my ideas are born and generated. The oak desk against the far long wall is where my thoughts are written down. The walls are covered with inspirational memories, future ambitions. Photographs of family members and friends watch over me with their silent voices. Endless adventure magazine clippings cover my door and numerous sections of the pale blue walls, adding additional flare. Mt. Everest juts out of these pictures. Calling my name, driving me to work harder.

The bookshelf, also tall and blue and pale, beckons with spectacular books. Some are small, and others large. On those pages I found my identity. Diverse readings, just as I am in life.

At the foot of my bed is an Army trunk. An over-large heavy rectangle, hauled here by my friend Corey and I when we were ten years of age. We sweat from carrying it from a neighbor’s spring-cleaning junk. Dad and I turned it to a forest-green art supply trunk, with black trim. A buck decal is on it, along with my name and graduating year. It now contains all my creativity.

My dresser resembles my desk. Smoothly varnished oak, with five drawers. On top rests a stained glass jewelry box my Aunt made. Only special objects are inside. Endless toiletry items contrast with the amber-colored wood. Among them rests, a small Zen, reminding me of peace.

My bed is made of oak. The feather-down comforter shows the imprint of my sleeping position. Numerous pillows protect me, and the few stuffed animals that still remain beside me. The stuffed childhood friends I hate to leave, though I know that cotton toys don’t come alive.

Under my bed is my great weakness: four blue Rubbermaid tubs, with priceless contents I could never dream of discarding. One is full of childrens’ storybooks. The stories I was read as a child by my mother as she scratched my back till my eyes drooped, droopy and I fell into a deep and pleasant sleep.

Two other tubs contain the schoolwork I could never bear to part with, despite detesting each moment of high school. Why do I keep them? Possibly to show myself I survived.

The final tub holds my toys. I love to play with things. They range from a Slinky to squirt guns and trivia books. There are days I need to travel to my childhood. The toys let me. I’d be lost without them.

In my closet are the stuffed animals that have been put away. Each one together, so none will feel lonely or left out, where they lie surrounded by junk, and by more junk. As closets tend to be full of junk, mine is no exception.

Four chinchillas -- Max, Maddie, Mel and Mac -- sit gazing at me from their cage, waiting for me to open their home, and stroke their soft fur coats. But instead I sit in my plush and puffy recliner, which instantaneously conforms to my body. I call it my ‘thinking chair.’ The chair that assists me as I develop my stories.

Two windows in my room let in light. I look out through them at the blowing leaves of the maple trees. A feeling that cannot be described, experienced, or felt by anyone but me. My paradise.

The End