Looking around my room, it's a mess. Drawers are hanging open with their interiors exposed. Clothes, worn and washed, are strewn across my floor, pulled from my closet or off of my body before bed. Empty water bottles and half drunk mugs of tea litter the flat surface of every piece of furniture that offers the opportunity. My bed remains unmade and crumpled papers lie as evidence beside my waste basket that I was never meant to play basketball. All my things are in a state of utter chaos. Ideally, I will simply pick everything up and put them in order, back in their place. But I can't. I am living in a world that is not ideal and picking up my things to diffuse this chaos seems an impossible task right now as I lie in bed.
And it hits me; I want my things to put themselves away. I don't want to do it myself. It would be much easier for things to place themselves in order. That way, I can continue lying in bed, which would provide immediate contentment and relief. I would not have to work to change the chaos that has built up in my environment. Then I get hit again and I turn my dilemma over the clutter in my room into a metaphor about the clutter in my life.
I avoid diffusing the clutter in my life because it would be difficult. It would take an energy for a will that I would rather not expend to have. That is simply it; it's too hard. Why? I wonder. Am I afraid of the challenge or am I just lazy? I have been called stubborn before. My life is not chaotic; it's cluttered by things I am unhappy with. Instead of picking up the pieces and attending to these things I attend to things that offer immediate gratification, an immediate sense of relief. I am learning, however, that such is quite fleeting and ultimately adds to the clutter.
What am I really saying here? I am seven years old again and I don't want to clean up my room?
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