by Lynn Robchinsky
Welcome to my space.
If you’ve received an invitation, consider yourself lucky.
Here I am naked, my thoughts float and bask in the air.
Here I am liberated, without filter or care.
At the crack of dawn, I curl up in the corner of my bed, reading cheesy romance novels.
I meticulously apply my makeup, sitting by the vanity, while blasting my dearest songs.
I dance as my janky record player attempts to play an older tune.
I sit in my uncomfortable, unsupportive office chair, where I brainstorm infinite ideas for my
I frantically run circles around my room when I'm in high spirits.
I observe people entering and leaving the neighborhood, through my enormous bay window,
one of my beloved things to do, here. Like seeing Jenna, from across the street, walking
towards the bus station for her piano lessons, or watching Mrs. Hai. from right next door, pulling
into her driveway from a long day at work. I love how the sun cascades over the furniture,
coating and illuminating each section of my room, like pools of honey and milk. I have come to
adore the awkward asymmetry of my room, leaving endless possibilities for room renovations.
I love the summer of 2021, when I lost myself momentarily - because that’s the first time I
sought solace in my space. Enveloped within the confines of my four walls, glazed me with
safety and security, giving me a reason to persevere. A series of visions inspired a change, and
soon, trips to Ikea became routine. I decorated my room with hints and splashes of green,
complimenting the pale ivory of the walls and ceilings. I added eccentric and arguably redundant
room décor that ultimately became identifiable markers of my space. And without them now,
would feel foreign. And when my room began to resemble the storm and sunshine that mimic
my mind, I felt a small part of me click into place. Out there, that version of me is rare to see.
Layered with a thick facade, to protect the real her. The world is far too cruel for a delicate heart like hers, so protecting her has become worth it. There is an unexplainable charm and sense of mystique it gives you - knowing that you’re the only one who truly knows yourself. It’s hauntingly beautiful, in that way. Perhaps if we’re close enough, you’ll see glimpses of the
who-she-really-is, but until you’ve walked into her space, you’re met with a barricade and a
choice. A choice to continue pursuing this curiosity you have with her. A choice to attempt to
see past the foggy front she’s established. And should you choose to follow this intrigue, you’ll
realize it was all worth it, when you receive the exclusive invite.
I love how easy it is to sneak onto my roof and stargaze. I love my generic wooden floors, and
how they completely mismatch the atmosphere that I've crafted. I love my silky soft bed, and
how it feels like being engulfed by a cloud, each time you lie in it. I love how the lights barely
work, and how archaic the dull-colored blinds are. I love how perfectly imperfect my space is.
And if you ever have the pleasure of walking into my space and running your fingers across the
spine of my books, checking what makeup brands I use, or attempting to figure out whether my
favorite vinyl record is Ultraviolence or Honeymoon - my, how important you must be to me. For
I would have finally allowed another to peer into a slice of my brain, into my thoughts, my true
feelings, my life, into who she really is.
Welcome to my space.
Don’t you dare touch a thing.