In order to type this, I have my elbows pulled in tight to my sides, and I'm being ever so careful to not nudge the stacks on either side just enough to send them toppling, upsetting weeks of careful stacking. Behind me lies an unmade bed ('awaiting-sheets unmade', not simply "I haven't yet pulled the covers up" unmade) There is a bag of recent drug store purchases (colour-in-a-box I maybe shouldn't have bought on impulse mere days before a big job interview) I haven't yet sorted through and stored in appropriate places; an assortment of things I brought home from work, such as a travel mug with dregs of old coffee I really should deal with; a bag of shopping bags I keep forgetting to bring out to the car, a collection of recently worn shoes that somehow never walked themselves back to where they belong; and before I finally tackled the mountain of laundry, there was .... no, I can't bring myself to describe that disaster to you. What has become of me?
I had excellent intentions weeks ago to tackle very specific writing projects every week, and so gathered various tools of the trade on and around my desk to facilitate the follow-through. Not only did the writing not happen, but excavation is now required to find those tools as other detritus has accumulated on top.
I have conditions in order to be able to work: a tidy and organized space, a tidy,organized mind. The state of my room is a direct reflection of the state of my mind, and it's not a pretty picture at the moment. I'm awaiting the return of sanity any moment now.
Still waiting.
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