On living in ''A Room of One's Own''

Sixty pages into Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own," and I can not stop wondering about how much I can relate to a writer from ages ago. 

The book was in my suggested readings in my bachelor's, but here I am reading it years later. The first impression I had from the title was- I want one for myself someday. As a kid, I have witnessed the joy of spending my life in different houses over the decade I spent in the town where I grew up. Mom had to house hunt several times to manage the distance from her office, our schools, and definitely other requirements. Each time after finalising the house, she would suggest a new corner for my dolls. And after we would shift, I remember poking her to remind the promise- the corner of my doll. I have always loved the idea of owning a space, irrespective of the size. Those of us who have lived in hostels would agree.

The rooms in hostels are a scam, yet somehow it's a prized experience. I lived in a dormitory during my bachelor's and had a corner for myself, luckily, there as well. A window, a table, a chair, a closet, a wall, and a four-foot wall for separation from my neighbor's area - that was all I had. I lived in it for one month at a time. I would change the setting of the space in a month, because the kid who has lived in rented houses loves changes. In winter, my mattress would be on the floor, with the bed as the only space left in the assigned area. I painted flowers, decorated quotes, and leaned against the only wall I had. I created a space for myself that I would love to come back to after hours of dealing with people and the world. Cut to another college, where the number of roommates had now been reduced to three, two, and finally one.

I have spent half a decade in hostels, and I finally have a room of my own. The only pronoun I would like to use for the room is mine. The room is mine, with an extended part that was once a balcony and is now almost a closet. The wall on the west side is blue in color with seven silver and six golden flower prints on the upper side. The walls have different-shaped and sized nails on them; I'm not sure what was there earlier, but I use them for my headphones and my earphones, as of now. The headphones hanging on the walls look like a painting on the wall, similar to the one I drew for someone once. Funny how one thing can remind us of so many other things. The other nails are unused yet, but two of them were helpful for me to create an invisible alignment for my black chart paper on the southern wall. The black chart paper is the same space I use to hang paintings and stick scribbling as a daily reminder for myself, to become an important someone in my life, or to live life one day at a time.

 As I write this, I am content, sitting in solitude, doing what I love, without anyone screaming next door. I have written prose to escape the chaos of hostels, to overcome the emotional purgation of invading space, and as a resistance to unfavorable situations impacting the way they want me to. I am almost in bliss as I write this- because I wanted to curate, not because this was the only free time where the hostel shenanigans were on hold.