I'm in a white room of emotion

I'm sitting on the rug in the middle of my room. My walls are bare, and my closet almost empty. The bookshelf holds only make-up and jewelry and my computer desk is strewn with bubble-wrapped-breakables, knick-knacks to remember the past six months. Two suitcases lie on the ground, clothes folded neatly and piled in rows, shoes and notebooks stacked straight. Random objects--to keep or throw away lie in disarray across the bed covers, piles of unwanted clothes and shoes stare at me from the floor, and blank walls stand reminding me of, well, everything. And despite the general stack of objects surrounding me, the room feels empty. It is no longer mine. In a few weeks, it will be filled with another person's--a stranger's--things. Most guests describe my room as homey, but now it's lost its touch. Personality has been scraped from its walls and they are now bare. The knick-knacks lying on the desk try to tell stories, but can never say enough, and the feeling of 'new', or of discovery has fled out of the open windows into the new moon night. All that is left are the memories of six months past, in a mind that is fragile and prone to forgetfulness.