My favorite room

My Favorite Room Introduction: I am a computer programmer. My favorite room is the room in which I work on my computer, as I spend a major portion of the time that I am awake here. The room has a door to enter, and holds my computer on a table, a swivel chair on which I seat myself, a small shelf with computer-programming books and compact discs in disarray, a swivel-chair, a waste-paper bin, an information board, a calendar, and several items of cheer-me ups.
My Favorite Room:
It is eleven in the morning. I have been working at my computer for almost two hours continuously. A couple of crumpled empty paper coffee cups in the waste-paper bin confirms this passage of time. My eyes are bleary from focusing on the bright computer screen, and my mind numb from all the battering it has taken in creating a segment of the computer program I am working on. I need to break for a while.
My eyes lift up from the computer screen, and I see the door through which I come and go. There is the desire to walk through it. I turn my eyes away from it, only to confront the information board with its intimidating schedules and deadlines, and the calendar as a reminder of the passage of time.
I swivel on my chair and my eyes fall on a large picture on the right. A waterfall gushes over, creating a mist over the green canopy of trees on either side of it. I feel the roar in my ears, sense the mist on my body, and my eyes feast on the soothing green of the trees. My benumbed mind awakens and I feel a sense of revival.
I swivel further to the shelf and see the disarranged books and compact discs, but my eyes do not focus on them. They search in between this disarray of books and compact discs till they fall on the baseball bat and fielding gloves sticking out. I have only eyes for them. My mind races back to my school days and the gay abandon of that age. I can see myself, baseball bat in hand waiting for the next ball to be delivered. The howls and hoots echo in my ear, as I miss and I am out, but who cares. The joy of just being part of the game is the thrill. A host of faces of my boyhood friends parade in front of me. Those days have gone and will never come back, except in the mind’s eye to refresh me from time to time.
I swivel again to the right and my eyes hit another picture. This time it is a picture of a lazy river winding itself among a splash of green and yellow – a field of daffodils. The poem my English teacher made me learn races through my mind and the words gently fall out of my lips, as I picture myself on stage, reciting it. “ I WANDER’D lonely as a cloud ……… And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils” (1).
The sharp ring of a telephone somewhere in the building brings me back to the present world. I look at my watch. Thirty minutes have whisked by. My mind is alert once more. My body rejuvenated. I turn to the computer once. The gears in my mind start churning and my fingers start moving on the keyboard. I am back at work.
Works Cited
1. Wordsworth, William. “ Daffodils”. 1804. A Bluepete Poetry Pick. 25 Sept. 2007 .