A carpet of clothes tell the story of her indecisive nature, the walls are an evolution of her artistic taste and old letters from loved ones jump out of open drawers. The room is a museum she does not wish to exhibit. Like a dragon showing its underbelly, she opens the door. The intruder sits down, immediately at home. Feeling no wounds to her vulnerable tum, she collects precious artifacts, suddenly compelled to give them the a guided tour of her life.
Of all the places I have written over the past 137 days; India, Woodford, Ikea and even from the top of a waterfall, I have never written a story in my room. I decided this was odd and decided to rectify this with the story above. Below is a picture- mess included.
freyawrightbrough 