I’ve always said that you can tell my emotional state by the
state of my room or car.
If they’re a mess, then
my mind is a mess-
crawling with thoughts constantly dragging my attention away from
reality.
If my room is neat, pristine, organized, well then I would be
worried.
My mind is never silent.
It’s always active, always darting back to a new thought like
a tongue to a hole from a freshly pulled tooth.
But in my mess, there is an organization that no one else can
spot.
For instance, my nail polish is always under the left-hand side of
my bed,
just like how my earrings are always scattered in the carpet by my
closet door.
Most people look at my room and can’t find a clear piece of
flooring to walk on.
My mother looks at my room and sees clutter,
and my father sees a fire waiting to happen with my tangle of cords
for my numerous lamps and chargers.
I see comfort.
I see a place where I can relax.
I see a place I can get away from the world.
I see more secrets than a diary, and more tears than a funeral
home.
I see more sleepless nights than a solider at war,
and I see more random bursts of inspiration than an artist.
My room is a world away from the world.
My room is my own reality.
So, when I refuse to clean my room, and others get mad at me,
I feel truly frustrated.
It wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.
They won’t see the b
lood that has dripped onto my pillow
from slicing my wrist open at one in the morning,
and they won’t see the s
miles that come from last night
skype sessions with friends.
They won’t see
all the times my stuffed animals came to
life.
And they won’t see the
dreams I have
created.
My room is my reverie.
Cleaning it would be destroying it.
I only wish more people understood.
