A messy person

My room is in a perpetual state of utter mess.
No matter how many times I clean up (not too often), the moat of haphazard papers and plastic bags of all origins just mysteriously grow out of the marble flooring like happy mushrooms, much to the chagrin of my mum.

This uncontrolled growth pattern has spurred my dad to get me yet another Toyogo cupboard which will be installed today and subsequently neglected.

Doing some self-reflection, I realise I don't want the mess to go away.

It must be some unconcious state of mind that prevents my hands from organizing my things into neat systematized blocks. Some part of me cries out for a rich and colourful pool of mess at the foot of my bed.

You see, in a mess, you can't find your things easily.
And therein lies the inexplicable wonder of being surprised by your mess. Because you never know where exactly your thing is in a mess pile, there is always a chance that you can't find it. And then there is a chance that you can. It's a surprise. It's also the joy of sieving through a sea of rubbish in search of that lost coin.

I'm very protective of my mess.
I give specific instructions to everyone in my family not to touch my mess. Don't clean it. Don't rearrange it. Don't do anything to it. Because everything is in its proper place.


Or maybe I'm just plain lazy.