I tend to form attachments with certain places. I get unbearably sad when I leave places I've come to be fond of, especially if I've been there for quite some time.
Eight months isn't very long, but I've become attached to my room. It's a nice little room. It's warm, it's cosy, it's bright. I have people living opposite whom I've taken to spying on, and the view's quite pretty. I love it that the sun has changed direction since I moved in here in October, and during sunset, the light hits my window and I get streaks of vermilion streaming in.
There are so many memories here. I've had two flatmates, both of whom I got along with. I've written (or at least attempted to write) stories. I've been extremely happy and extremely sad (the latter of late). I've been elated and depressed. I will miss this chair, which I was sitting on when I said that conversation's the first thing to go. This chair that can hold the weight of two. The tiny bed that can fit two sleepers. The electrical sockets that don't really make sense. The bathroom light that keeps on blowing. The upstairs people who have bumpy sex. The windows that can't open fully. The view from the kitchen. I know that I'll probably come back to Oxford in the future, but this room I can never come back to.
I must be able to deal with leaving. They say that age hardens you, but I find myself getting more sentimental instead.
Most of all, I guess I am sad about leaving because it will mean that a part of my life is over. Student life is over, and it is time to get back to reality. Someone said that it's as if my room's another dimension. It is. To me, it will always be a magical place -- a little room were memories and art were made.