Another semester has come and gone, and as I folded and packed the last of my laundry, and pried the last of the command strips off the wall I sank into deep depression. I looked at the bare walls and the bare bed and the empty desk, and I thought about how in less than a month they would belong to another soul wandering the halls of academia looking for their place in the world.

I thought about the countless times I had perfectly arranged the pillows on my fluffy bed, and set my books in order on my desk. I thought about the cheery flowers that once sat on my window seat. I thought about many hours I spent looking at my reflection in the full-length mirror to pick out the perfect outfit. I thought about the many times I had run up to my room to escape the icy rain outside, and how I had sat in front of the heater desperately trying to recirculate the blood in my fingers. I thought about the times the room had been filled with the laughter of my friends, and the other times when I would hide my head under the covers of my bed and cry.

These things were mine, no matter how briefly I had them. This was what I came home to every night after exhaustive hours of work. The walls now look so expressionless without my portraits and pictures of my family. The room feels cold and ominous.

I look at the bare walls and the uniform furniture and I think about how the memories I made here will be forgotten by the room as the next person moves in. The only evidence of the rooms previous owners can be summed up in the tiny tack holes scattered over the wall.

This place that I called home, wasn’t really my home. It wasn’t really the home of any of its owners. It was just a stopping point on the road to something better; while it is encouraging that my life doesn’t stop at that drafty, little room, I cringe because there seems to be a lack of meaning at this time in my life.

My now expressionless dorm room, only seems to represent the lack of fruit I am receiving from all the work I am doing in life. In the end, all of the memories I made in my room must be packed into boxes and stored in the closet, and the same goes with all the work I did this semester. It doesn’t feel like I have grown from it, and it doesn’t feel like it has any meaning. Just like the beautiful decorations that once hung on my walls, my accomplishments mean nothing to the people who come after me. The accomplishments I have made now are only a stopping point, and unfortunately I have no idea where I am going.