Life is everywhere, pulsing, throbbing, and beating with energy. The vibrant colors of my room reminded me of this life. The deep indigo of my bedspread leaped around the room, bouncing off the walls and streaming along with the bright rays of light reflecting off the worn beige carpet. The dark oak of the woodwork and dresser thrummed with the life of the two oak trees out the southern window. A slight breeze rustled the leaves, sending a crackling music throughout the room, slowly dampening when it touched the soft fabrics of the beds and carpet. A dozen Cheshire smiles glared out from the faces of the creatures huddled together in the corner, fake animals, but vividly alive in my mind. The wallpaper made of various posters and drawings only flashed more ideas into my head. The room contained energy, like a tree, even when the room appeared dead as a tree in winter, it thrummed with life, invigorating my body.

Each morning in my room was like a new spring for a tree. The stored energy from the night burst out, filling every space with constant animation. I had no need for an alarm clock beside my bed; the sun performed the duty of awakening me from my morning slumber. Bright glares of light peeked first over the neighboring houses, before shimmering through the massive white pine stationed next to the window. My face soaked in the luscious warmth, and I soon awoke. The filtering light danced wildly over the surfaces in the room, creating a jungle of lights and darks. The morning dew evaporated into the cool morning air, carrying with it the odors of pine and oak trees, tulips, and grass through the window screen. As my body balanced itself out after the night’s repose, the fish in my aquarium awoke as well and darted through the sunrays and rocks towards the spicy flavored food on the surface. I heard the dishes clanging together downstairs in the kitchen, and wonderful scents of scrambled eggs, fresh bacon, and warm buttery toast drifted into my room. The familiar once fuzzy carpet brushed my feet as I walked on towards daily life.

The hot, hazy, summer afternoons drew me back to the room. Dull monotony gave me the need for rest, but my body became filled with anxious energy while lying on my bed. The coarse fibers running the length of the sheets scraped at my skin, enticing my muscles to start vibrating. The clicking of the keys on the computer downstairs, along with the roaring motor of the neighbors’ lawnmower and the shouts of children playing soon sent my whole body shaking, and it flopped around the covers, ready for action. My thoughts raced along with my muscles, and I could no longer retain the boundless energy bursting through myself. I leaped off of my bed and rushed outside to add my voice to those of the other children.

At dusk the room glowed with a rose hue, the colors of oak trees in autumn. All that had been done that day was summed up at sunset. After a reading from Huckleberry Finn or the Chronicles of Narnia, the covers scrunched themselves around my face, trapping the thoughts and energies of the day within. The last sounds of activity died from the kitchen, and the lights of the hallway disappeared. I would soon realize the snoring echoing throughout the house. Even that horrific din stopped after a few minutes, and all appeared still. The death of the day’s activities seemed absolute when the last glimmers of light faded from the walls.

Nothing ever died in that room, even though it appeared in a state of hibernation, closed up for the harsh winter of night. The energy of the room penetrated me, and I was forced to remain awake, breathing and living, not giving in to the unsightly death that the world perceived came with night. Thoughts rushed through my head, and the creaking of wood or a silent whistle of the wind sent my imagination sailing into new oceans of ideas. The animals in the corner climbed from their positions and talked in magical thoughts, enticing me with the stories of the creatures I had never known. They talked of the worlds of books, and my fish would listen with me, bubbling their thoughts into the air. Their tales carried us to their worlds. We would fight in the imaginary battles of Redwall or Narnia with glorious weapons of old and armies of horrific beasts. The feasts of victory were huge oak tables, roughly carved but lavishly covered in food and drink. The parties and dances of our imagination would be long over, and the night would still remain. With ever-silent slowness, I crawled to the window to watch the life of the moon and the trees, pulsing with energy, like my room.