I’m sorry I couldn’t answer the phone. I was having a crisis of shelf.
This is the side of me I try to keep hidden. But it makes itself known when the stars align, if you will. I don’t know about astrology, but my roommate told me Mercury is in retrograde.
Part of me knows that Mercury goes around the sun like every other planet, and that this retrograde is just an ancient misinterpretation. But that rational cool-minded part of me isn’t the one ripping shelves off my walls.
I’m drinking green tea, lukewarm on it’s second round of water. Listening to aggressive electronic music and plugging in the electric tools. I can hammer on as loud as I want before 11PM.
The only person who would complain lives above me. The hoarder and thief whose domestic disputes are too loud for my sheltered cubby. This little box that keeps me safe, the one whose shelves are being torn from its walls. Whose deep intestines rumble no earlier than 3AM with throbbing reggae beats from downstairs. Whose walls are too thin to bear shelves and too soft to rest a bureau.
I’m sad. I don’t like to see the wall bare next to my bed. This could be a reminder of my own impermanence or maybe an expression of feeling trapped. Maybe not by my home, my sweet, breathing abode, but by the possessions within. Or the social forces that possess me.
I always saw the state of a room as a reflection of the state of the mind of its host. But right now I see some obvious messes that don’t feel worth cleaning until I know exactly how it runs as a whole. Well… maybe that’s what’s happening inside me.
But there is some truth to getting rid of a small problem by really stirring the pot, or knocking down a few shelves. And unless I can comprehend everything I own, I am possessed by the chaos of folding the same few shirts into the same drawer.
And maybe to most people, that’s not chaos. Just life.