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
If my room is neat, pristine, organized, well then I would be
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
For instance, my nail polish is always under the left-hand side of
just like how my earrings are always scattered in the carpet by my
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
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 blood that has dripped onto my pillow
from slicing my wrist open at one in the morning,
and they won’t see the smiles that come from last night
skype sessions with friends
They won’t see all the times my stuffed animals came to
And they won’t see the dreams
My room is my reverie.
Cleaning it would be destroying it.
I only wish more people understood.