My room

I'm normally a very clean and tidy person when it comes to my room and keeping the apartment clean, but today as I was coming home thinking about my description, I arrived in a room I would now like to consider "artistic disorder."

A room that normally looks clean and without clutter (other than when my clothes pile up in the laundry basket) became its alter-ego: I like to consider my room in disarray a sad reflection of my current state of mind.

Several random workout shorts and shirts pepper the floor, spread out in a nonsensical way. A unpacked suitcase from my L.A. weekend I just haven't had the energy to put in the closet. A plastic Rite-Aid bag which held some deep-conditioning hair mask earlier that day. A pair of Nikes, likely with dry sweat from spinning. All sit. They wait for my moment of inspiration, for new constructive beginnings, for order.

My furniture looks particularly misplaced in this new world of random placement. Somehow through all of the chaos that is my bedroom, at the moment they sit. My bed is made, my desk is somewhat clear, my books all in order.

And so I sit, in bed with my laptop, thinking about my creative chaos, or artistic disorder. What usually makes me unsettled until it's clean tonight will just rest. I'll clean in the morning, or maybe just later.