OBLIVION - WANPLENG

The Subtle City

The morning sun filtered through the cracked window sill, casting warm rays that danced subtly across the small girl who lay nestled under the white sheets. As she stirred awake, remnants of her dreams seemed to flutter away, giving way to the bright possibilities of a new day occuring. Ember eyes scanned her surroundings, taking in the comfort and familiar chaos of her room. She stretched out, shaking off the remnants of sleep deprivation, allowing her body to fully awaken.

The bed, typically made with white sheets and a couple of plush throw pillows in soft pastel colors, wrapped the girl with each wrinkle. She found herself rarely able to relax in this makeshift home, but cherished every second she was able to.

Dust floated lazily in the sunlight, settling on the stack of research books piled haphazardly on her bookshelf. The rhythmic ticking of the clock that hung askew from the wall, punctuated the stillness while her discarded clothes from the night prior lay scattered across the floor. Each item in her room, though disheveled, was ingrained with a sense of purpose-a reflection of her dreams and aspirations.

The walls were painted a soft, calming white, matching the furniture that adorned the space around her. A sleek, wooden desk stood against one wall, was the home to neatly stacked textbooks on forensic science, criminal psychology and anatomy. Their spines displayed titles that hinted at her ambitions. A high-backed chair bore the marks of late night study sessions that would later pay off.

But as for her dreams, in one corner of the room, stood a polished and gleaming Mahogany based guitar. Its strings are silver and lightly dusted, a testament to both her passion for playing music and the time she often wished she had to play. But playing music was more than just a hobby; it was a sanctuary, a place she could find herself unwinding in after a long day spent buried in anxiety and case studies.

Next to the polished guitar, was a vinyl record player. Surrounded by a small collection of records and dust mites, the memories of her father taking her to his childhood record shop and buying her the first of a long collection, paid homage to the memories she cherished and often found herself wishing she could forget. The collection grew over the years, each visit to her parents resulting in a new addition. Although the player had not spun a record in what felt like months, it remained a valuable and comforting piece, the once vibrant charm was a reminder of quiet blissful evenings with her parents spent listening to music obnoxiously loud while her mother yelled to turn the volume down-they never did though.

Scattered through this room were all personal touches: a small cork board hung above her desk, displayed photographs of her childhood friends, those moments brought her comfort during instances of homesickness. A silver picture frame graced the nightstand beside her bed, showcasing a beloved photo of her parents, serving as a constant reminder of their unconditional love and support, easing her anxiety through the midst of her work and loneliness.

This room of hers, while not entirely tidy, was intentional in its disarray and every item was a piece of her story. It was the personification version of her wrapped up but ultimately, the place where she could escape the outside world and embrace her own sanity in peace.

In between neighbors and bustling local shops that lined up on a busy Bangkok street, she loved every moment that echoed from outside. The chaos was often the reason she left her window cracked slightly ajar, welcoming the vibrant sounds of birds chirping, animated gossip, and honking of taxi cabs, this was her morning cup of coffee. Growing up in a small fishing town in Phetchaburi, Thailand, she harbored a long resentment for the quiet and instead yearned for the pulse of city life so after she graduated high school, she found herself hugging her parents goodbye and on the next train that passed by.
She had grown accustomed to the independence over the past two years, but faced the occasional wave of homesickness, evoking the dire need to feel the warm floorboards of her childhood home and her mothers sweet aroma of her home cooked meals. Memories of her fathers voice often rang in her ears as he wished her happy birthday, his fragile smile forever etched into the back of her mind, along with the haunting cough that lingered through his last months.