In my room, the walls are white. There is a lamp which bathes the room in a warm, yellow-ish color. My house shoes peak from under the wooden frame of the bed. Over the years, I have tried to sift all things non-vital out of here, sometimes slowly, sometimes in big, angry bursts.
My room is small. There is just enough space to dance through my daily routine of getting dressed and groomed and staunchly whispering self-reassuring words into the mirror. Over the years, the size of my living space has not increased to reflect what they expect to be my position in life and my level of maturity.
It is as if I was drawn to non-room, to a sort of negative space, that makes every item non-vital for survival seem extravagantly obsolete, that even makes displaying excess emotions, expectations and personality traits seem unneccesarily, embarassingly lavish and decadent. The exhilarating feeling of non-space and non-ownership, the almost physical expecience of the non-burden is an incredibly primal pleasure that looks at the growing consumerist culture with widely open, uncomprehending eyes.
Maybe it is the feeling of freedom. Maybe it is the fear of commitment and responsibility. Maybe it is the deeply satisfying sense of discipline and self-control. Maybe it is the subconscious influence of frighteningly cool Scandinavian designers. But whatever it it, I love my beautiful, ugly, naked little nothingness that surrounds me and overwhelms me and glares at me every day like a challenge and an achievement, like a reproach and a congratulation, like a Malevich-esque, majestic empty canvas.