My room, my life

I've stayed up late to pack my room over the past few nights. My mother calls my room "organised mess" and I'd agree with her. I'm legendary for always having piles of stuff stacked neatly around, and I've never completely packed everything away. At the end of every clean-up session, there's always a left-over pile that I don't know what to do with, so I leave it aside to look at it some other time. This is due to the double-edged combination of the "it-might-be-useful-one-day" school of thought with my inability to just stuff stuff into the closest drawer/box/corner. Everything has to be logically grouped together and neatly arranged, with the most fitting storage apparatus selected.

I'm afraid that this is a manifestation of my subconscious desire to have my life neatly sorted and classified, with a place for everything and no messy or unexpected bits in sight. Or maybe my room is the only part of my life where I can attempt to impose such order, because everything else (including my emotions) are such capricious creatures.

But the thing that hit me the most during this clean-up exercise is how I've literally stored my dreams away. Going through my drawers, I found mementos of things that I've always wanted to do, projects that I mean to start, hidden hopes, desires, wishes. All kept away from sight so that nobody knows that they exist. Some of them have been put away for so long that I've forgotten that I ever had them.

It never feels that I'm good enough to start and there's always some other time.

True to form, I have two stacks of papers and files left to sort though, but I don't think I'll look at it till next week. It's just too much for now. Thinking about this last night, I wondered if I am waiting my life away.