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Self-reflection Room: Things you like or Things you hate
Picture yourself in a four cornered room with a single window that has enough space for a single bed, a cabinet, a couch, and a table. It is either in all black or in all white. Now tell me how will you fill up that room; What kind of things will you hide in there? What kind of emotions were you feeling while thinking about the things you wanted to do inside the room? What kind of room will it be? What kind of view will you see beyond the window? And if you were given a choice to either stay inside that room forever and to never get out or to leave that room you worked hard to fill it in with the things the way you want, and never go back inside again. What will you choose? Write in a way that is comfortable to you, It could be a negative or a positive thought. This could be a reflection to the things you like or maybe to the things you hate.
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CalebMar in Journal
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In the center of a black room stood nappy black man pacing the floor. Corner to corner, he held his chin and glanced out the window, rectangular with a slider announcing the option to shut himself from the world. The furniture's color eluded him, outside of the ray's reach and made up of contrasting styles from different eras. His bed wasn't even bed, more of mattress on stilts, and his door was so thin it seemed painted on--black with tears of a shabby paintjob trailing off the sides.

I hide my books, I hide my hands, I hide my thoughts. I hide my touch, I hide my views, I hide my heart. I hide regret and regret that I regret. I hide to hide but the light always finds me here. Every night the moon, new or full, keeps me up and aware of how empty this pursuit is. I reflect to understand the world, losing more of my identity through conflicting thoughts. My table is covered in notes, notebooks, and inkless pens. Caps litter the floor beneath the bed, just out of sight from me and any other eyes. Somehow, I'm afraid of other eyes from all the way up here, looking down at the ants of society, brave enough to engage or risk failure. How long can I convince myself to stay here? I wonder this every time I enter, couped up for weeks on end.

He feels empty, ironically, full of himself. Smart, above it all, like the outlier who'll make something of himself while the social school flounders. Three pictures peak out a slit in his mattress of his family and girlfriend, both which he hasn't seen for equal amounts of time. He feels like a hypocrite, stupid to assume a single human has the philosophical, psychological, and spiritual answers the world needs--knowing all too well how they stemmed from other realms, heads, and mouths. Sometimes he doesn't feel at all, watching and waiting for someone to care. Knock on his door or call his dead phone.

"No, that would be awful."

Why would anyone want that?

This room would be what I need, simultaneously what I don't. The introspection quickly morphed into hyperconsciousness: overthinking in this small room. I don't know if I'd be better off in a bigger room. I wonder if I'd want to leave that too.

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