My room is messy.
My mother often tells me cleanliness is close to godliness. If so, my room is the antichrist.
My room is a shelter from what’s wrong in my life; my mess covers me like a warm blanket in the bitterest of winter.
Yet, I am ashamed, and I try to clean. I try to push my dirty laundry under the bed and hide the water glasses that cover my shelves.
However, my trash is not a burden—it’s a comfort.
Maybe if my room is messy, my mind will remain busy.
I wish my mind never be clear. I will for it to be filled with thoughts and memories. Maybe if I clean my room, I clean my thoughts of memories and rest my aspirations along with my mess.
I rarely lose things in my room; as impossible as it seems, deep within my brain I can remember where I put my shoes or the last place I set my laptop.
Sometimes I decide it is time to change and to clean the skeletons out of my closet and brain, but somehow, like snakes, they slither back into my life as well as my head.
I thrive inside my world of chaos as if I am my own tornado. My mess is a spirit in my house, bringing down the atmosphere and leaving exoplasm of tension between my parents and me.
It is embarrassing.
I wish I was comfortable with letting people into my mess, being confident they wouldn’t judge me and my abundance of empty glasses and leftover candy wrappers from last Halloween.
It’s gross; I often fear that if people saw my mess, they would see through me and seek out the hoarder of memories and leftover water bottles.
I’m the girl that laid out the mess, and I have to be the one to pick it up. As hard as it will be, I will eventually clean up my mess and clear my mind. I will miss my mess, but I will benefit from the clarity of a clean room and recovered mind.
My room is cluttered, but so is my head, and now it is time to take out the trash and sink my head under the tranquility of a clear mind.