“Cleaning my room” is in my own vocabulary, a continuous, slow process. Kind of like metamorphic rock in the time scale
Sitting in my room daydreaming, something funny came to mind. While I kind of dislike being a somewhat disorganized person, and despise the fact that everything I have seems to break, wear out, or get caked in filth prematurely, there is some sort of value to it at the same time.
My room has dust and cobwebs everywhere. If you walked in my room, you would think it had been uninhabited for years the way things are just piled about under layers of dust. Everything is faded, cracked, old, and very, very still.
I like my room because when I am in my room, time stands still. The world passes by outside, but everything is static, a ‘safety bubble’ I can sit inside. Perhaps the most theraputic thing for me is not necessarily talking out problems to people or taking my anger out on inadminate objects, but rather shutting myself in my room and kind of just daydreaming, taking a few deep breaths, a self-imposed ‘time-out’ if you will. I don’t think I could stand sharing a room with someone, the amount of change and dynamicism of it would make me feel the thousand mile an hour speed of the world