My inherent tendency to maintain a messy room isn’t merely unconventional; it offers a deeper insight into my habit of preserving this chaos—because a messy room has character.
Chaos, misplaced items, and notebooks and clothes scattered haphazardly may seem to disturb peace, but at their core, they tell a story. A story so loud that it becomes impossible to ignore—one that makes people say, “This messy room isn’t letting me think clearly.”
I’d like to devise a different approach to conquer this absurd and almost invisible surge of stimuli floating in the air, waiting to be noticed. Instead of trying to block out the noise, why not actively listen to it and seek comfort in it? Let it gently embrace you with the motherly love you’ve been craving.
Shallow and congested streets flooded with people, staircases in underground subway stations stretching into the abyss, an empty swimming pool after a huge party—each tells a story, while the uncolored ones do not.
What unsettles people is not the clutter itself, but the unapologetic honesty with which it reveals who I am. A perfectly arranged room almost feels rehearsed—performed even—while a distrupted one reveals the backstage. It shows the drafts, the thinking, the interruptions, the days you woke up tired and simply continued existing without arranging the stage first. Maybe the mess doesn’t interrupt life at all; maybe it proves that life is happening. And at the center of it, I am happening.
