Who’s that girl who lived here? Who’s that girl who bought those books and read them – over and over? Much like the magazines? They’re piled up in a corner of the room. Does she still read them? And there. Who’s the girl who collected those things? The gems (woaw, pretty) and the little stuff, figurines, stones, shells. Who’s that person with the pink curtains and that bed? Let alone that writing desk? Did she write these diaries and poems? Truly?
What kind of person is that?
And those CD’s, those clothes, even the wall paper. What am I supposed to think when I see this? Is this really representative for her character? Imagine the person living here. With a family. Being at ease in this place, being herself here. Knowing this room all too well and liking everything in it. The jewels she’s much attached to. Carefully chosen and bought, often worn. The pictures on the wall. They’re nice, yes. I admit that. The sheets on the bed. Just everything. I walk around here and wonder who she is. What she thinks. Would I like her?
I open the door, the door she has to know so very well. I walk down stairs. The carpet she’s seen since she were born and came to live here. The steps. The lamps. I open the door to the kitchen, something she must have done a thousand times already. Her family is seated there. One empty chair.
And I walk straight to it, going the same way since ever, and sit down on that chair. I sit there, as always, eat together with my family, looking outside to the sight I’ve always seen.
And I wonder how much I’ve changed in such a short period of time…