Standing in the doorway of my bedroom, the first things to be seen are pictures. Pictures of friends, family, good times, and memories that should never be forgotten hang above my bedside. Old or new, I never want to forget them. These memories lie on a rectangular purple and blue striped wall. There is a shelf of dolls. I do not know why they are still there, but I cannot find it inside of me to get rid of them. A lamp sits on an abandoned dresser along with an old clock, which barely has enough energy for the alarm to go off in the morning. There is a painting of I do not know what, but its colors add creativity. Trophies lie on a different shelf—all from different sports, but all give the same sense of accomplishment. A desk is across from this shelf, with millions of useless items piled on top of it. The only organized article on my desk is a Mac Book Pro, which is taken extremely good care of. There are books in a pile to the right. I do not believe I have read half of them, and yet they are there—keeping me feeling intelligent and giving the choice to escape into a different story if I really wanted to. The dresser of clothes has many drawers, each just as messy and unorganized as the next. But everything has its own place, and everything is found without a problem. In the middle of this disaster zone is a queen-sized bed covered in ten times the amount of necessary blankets for a good night’s rest. The room may seem messy, but it is neat in its own way. Suddenly an orange dart with a black tip swerves into the bedroom, barely missing one of the many pictures hung above the bed. A small, energetic young boy enters the room unknowingly disturbing the peace and silence that was there before. He dives on the bed to catch the dart in his fist. Amazed by his success, he grips it tightly and dashes out of the room as if nothing has happened.