My desk looks like a disaster zone. Even for me, it's a new record. It's the Japan of all desks.
I have nothing against cluttered desks (I have something against meaningless slop). My dear yellow-wood is sitting on a fine divide at the moment.
I think it has something to do with the fact that I ransacked my drawers and de-booked my shelves in an effort to re-organise (or rather, organise). Probably a rather bad idea for someone who's experience with putting things in order ranges from a pencil case to a ... all right, just a pencil case.
The thing is, I don't know where to put half the things. The little voice in my head says, just throw the damn things away. Logically, if I haven't missed it till I found it, it's not really essential to my survival (or sanity). But then, I feel like an insensitive bitch when I attempt to crumple it up and chuck it in the can. (Even if I don't read it any more - or even care that it exists - the person who wrote it, cared right? And then there's Karma. What if that person is on real friendly terms with it. And I get a bollocking, with like, knobs on?).
It's at times like this, when I really miss D. I think the real reason I have no idea how to avert a sloppy hell, is because she used to come and spring-clean my room annually. Having a best friend who's OCD tidy has definite perks. I need her superhuman powers of organisation round about...yesterday.
Anyway, I'm now stuck. Lost actually. In a city of novels, stationery, and a whole bunch of other things that I forgot I even possessed (like a dead rose for instance). I'm so tempted to just leave it all there and crawl into my bed, but I'm scared that when I wake up in the morning it will be alive. Or, the thought crosses my mind, an army of little people will magically appear and set everything in order.
I like the second scenario more. Goodnight Dear World.
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