Beneath the pomegranate tree, in a large valley on the outskirts of London, a girl was taking advantage of the vast shadow it created to read the latest novel by Terry Hayes, I Am Pilgrim, that, without her knowing it yet, would soon become her favorite narrative. It was a windy morning, and her long and golden hair kept stroking her cheeks like scattered waves caress the shore. The novel embraced her thoughts, and her passion for crime thrillers emerged in an instant. She believed books were remarkable substitutes of television screens, which she never felt the need of, despite they have taken over our modern society. Her mind kept enriching itself of imagination, and she was able to perceive her circumstances in a deeper and more profound manner. Her eyes penetrated every page of the novel she was reading, always seeking for more, hidden words that would explode in her mind into thousands and thousands of different images. A book narrates a story that not everyone might understand, and she was just like one; whoever didn’t know her perceived her as hostile and unfriendly, when, in fact, with time and dedication, she would turn out to be the most honest, bright, and amiable human being.
Her thoughts were interrupted by one of her red cats, whose tail sat across the rough surface of one of the eight-hundred-and-ninety-one pages of the novel. As she crossed her legs that were initially elongated through the humid grass, she placed her book aside and grabbed her furry friend with both of her hands, enclosing him between her legs. Animals were what represented her surroundings and her home, and she would never forget the sound of birds chirping in the warm light of sunrise, or the sound of cows stepping on mud after a rainy day. It was what she’d miss the most of her hometown: the limitless trees on the horizon line, the neighboring animals, and her family. That was one of the things she valued to the greatest extent, other than friendships, because it made her feel protected and comfortable. Family always came before anything and everything, and she believed it was something that could never abandon or betray her. Her house always smelled of lavender, and that was how she brought her family with her, whenever she had to travel. They weren’t with her physically, but the perpetual scent of lavender in her new room and possessions always made her feel at home, even when far away. She resided in Paris, away from her family and hometown; away from her friends and daily routines, but it wouldn’t take too long for her new room to resemble her old one. She had furnished the corners of her bed with pink, fleecy decorations, which harmonized well with her candy pink bed sheets and circular salmon carpet. Her passion for pink was, therefore, not only highlighted by her phone case and screensaver, but also by the environment she inhabited. Almost everything in her possession reflected this bright and cheerful color, and she mirrored these adjectives as well, through her recurrent and natural smile. The pictures above her white pillow in her small and cozy Parisian room, depicted her most unforgettable and ravishing memories, with her parents, her closest friends, or somewhere beautiful around the world; one could observe each one of these and construct the girl’s greatest values. The radiant girl was fascinated by the typical Parisian roofs and captivated by the art she studied in her institution, yet her home was inevitably greatly missed. She would have visited London not too long afterwards, but her excitement was a constant reminder of melancholy and nostalgia.
Her compact and little room was encircled by towering grey buildings, that prevented the sunlight from shining within her apartment. It was very different from where she used to live, where, even in cloudy days, her vast windows would allow the rays of the sun to illuminate her surroundings. Nonetheless, she was happy, and balanced constant obscurity with bright colors on her walls, overspread with wide violet canvases, and floors, covered in pink-striped carpetings. Her passion for green and nature was recurrent in Paris as well, as she attempted to resemble her Londinese garden and beloved pomegranate tree with cactuses and hanging succulent plants.
She shared her apartment with several other people, but one could immediately tell which room she was established in through its colors and mostly scent. Her room strongly contrasted the rest of the household, that, instead, embodied neutral and achromatic furniture confined by plain and simple white walls. Lavender, once again, perfumed her circumstances and coordinated well with what she often wore, like clean-cut jeans and bright shirts and jerseys. However, her reserved and quite being amusingly distinguished from her wooden floor, which creaked with every step one took in the apartment. Moreover, unlike her minimal bedside table, which always appeared somewhat chaotic and abundant in objects, her personality revealed organization and neatness. All of her routines, objects she possessed, colors she wore, perfumes she adored, or decorations she used mirrored the girl’s characteristics and cherished values, and it was not hard to guess her personality from the way she inhabited her surroundings.
One can tell great things from the environment a person lives in, despite it may sound unusual and astonishing, and this is another way of making acquaintance with someone that has not yet fully been discovered. We surround ourselves of objects and garments because we like them or because we feel some sort of emotional attraction to them, and this is what truly makes us human.
