There were castles growing beside her bed. The masonry was a jumble of ancient and new pieces, pockmarked, scratched, and dirty. The walls smelled the smell of old, of mould and damp and memories if memories could have a smell. There were frays running along the edges of the flags that soared proudly from the tourrets, proclaiming frozen moments, paused in mid-battle stance.
The desk… well one could wonder if there even was a desk beneath the scattered sheets of scribles, but I suppose something had to be holding up the well used laptop computer, its varnished black keys matted now, some of the painted letters worn off by proding fingers.
The shine had worn off the shutter of the bulky camera as well, scratched and dirty after one too many adventures. Gloss finished windows spilling colourful views adorned the walls, like time machine escapes to past realities, with lonely fiddly rolls of film collecting dust on the windowsill as proof that those captured moments ever really existed.
On this partcular day, the girl decided that it was time she organized her scribbles and adventures and moments. Here she would keep a record of her life, her feelings, her sights, her treasures, written out as little stories of prose, and sometimes poetry. And each day she would take a picture of something that mattered to her, so that her little stories could speak a thousand more words. In her heart, as she poured out her dreams, her life, her misguided thinkings, in some small way, she would change the world.
“Smile!” she said as she clicked the shutter down and captured that one moment of life.