What if I'm meant to write but have nothing to say? I should sit down every morning and put down two pages, but I'm afraid I'll be sucked dry. What's the worst that could happen, really? I'm boring? What else is new? My spectacularly ordinary life is devoted to what the less enlightened deem dull. I enjoy little things, small comforts, and best of all I shall never run out of those. If I force myself to sit down with a pen daily, I'll become a better and better translator of the petite beauty that strikes me daily.
I love my cluttered room, for example, my tumultuous sanctuary. True I hate not being able to find things, but I wonder if there isn't comfort in having some chaos of my very own. I am like God, master of a mess that seems without purpose. In daily life I am ordered and in control (or so it would seem), but without the freedom to sprawl and clutter sans reproach I chafe and then wither. I do value simplicity and every time I tidy I purge. But to me perfect cleanliness, the obsessive kind that comforts some people, is just a pristine lie. Nothing will stay that way. What's the point? To feel efficient for a few days but not remember where anything is? Probably also to a degree because I'm lazy, I'll admit. There are all different species of people in the world, however, and the ones who think me lazy I find neurotic. I'd say I'm casual, easily satisfied, someone who doesn't buy into the frantic and ambitious. My room is dirty and I am content.
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