It's nearly impossible to walk in my room without stepping on something. A bunch of cards have spread themselves out over about three square feet of my floor. I just left them in a pile on the floor about a month ago and since then they have sneakily taken over a tenth of the open floor in my room. Not that there was much open floor to begin with.
A corner of my room has been invaded by my overflowing book collection, my blanket never seems to stay on the bed, and a few pounds of clothes have haphazardly strewn themselves over the remaining area. Luckily, I have a desk for... no wait, the desk is completely useless. Covered with more cards, awesome speakers, random papers, a seventh grade art project with a broken arm, my uselessly slow laptop, and glasses I haven't used for over four years, it is remarkable that my desk hasn't collapsed. I do my homework downstairs.
Still, this "crap" isn't meaningless. The massive amounts of cards are all from decks in my collection. I get a new deck every family vacation. My books are amazing. The awesome speakers are awesome. My glasses were a necessary part of three years of my life and then a pink eye infested week of eighth grade. The seventh grade art project is the only art creation I have ever been proud of, not including written or musical art. The laptop, well, it's had better days, but it used to be the Lego League laptop, and Lego League was ridiculously fun. I have no idea what most of the papers even mean.
Overall, my room tells my life story. Reminders past obsessions are found everywhere. While a lot of the contents are pointless artifacts now, they all show what I've done. And what I've done has formed who I am.
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