i love his room. sometimes i think its mine (i've never had a room of my own before). i love how soft and small his bed is- i'm pretty sure that i'm the baby bear and he's the intruding goldilocks. i love being surrounded by books i've never read, knowing that each of them were personally handpicked by him with the utmost care and love, and knowing that he gives me ten times of that. and knowing that god gives me hundred times of that.
i want to always feel this safe and cocooned. but because i know nothing lasts forever, i want more than anything to remember how everything feels, where everything is, in a startlingly bright clear picture. small little things like how the fan always blows right into my eyes and how i'm always looking at his back as i lie on my side and take up the entire bed while he sits on the edge of it and work furiously on his laptop, pressing the letters on the keyboard rapidly, and how his walls of bookshelves aren't even enough to hold his massive truckload of books any more; they spill in piles onto the floor and onto the quaint-looking armchair which seems rather out of place. it is as though the owner suddenly thought that he lived in a surreal zen-like garden full of blossoming white flowers rather than a typical boy's room painted in a typical blue colour.