it’s that disconnected feeling that prompts me into a state of intense organization, as if the act of sorting and piling and rearranging might displace that numbness, where the rest of me—the bones, veins, blood, cells, and brain, synapses, chemicals can settle back into place. disjointed, like you can take a person apart and solve them whole again, finding the various ways you can collapse and reassemble.
and it’s always spaces and things that aren’t my own. i start with haphazardly tossed items like junk or regular mail, picking at one lodged underneath a crumpled sweater, and then i work on folding clothes, searching for a missing sock that’s hiding tangled cables under the bed, and i’m unraveling wires until a random pin falls onto my lap, so i put that in its own pile with the other miscellaneous objects that aren’t mine to deal with, and suddenly everything is clean, in stacks, put away, forgotten.
i’m trying really hard because at the end of the day, none of it should really matter. but i don’t like being taken by surprise, i like things that are concrete, things i can touch, things my mind can wrap itself around. it’s like falling and zero gravity catching you when all you want to feel is the impact of a hard surface.
i like to pretend i understand other people, but i don’t. they’re as complex as the state of my own room because i’m too busy, too preoccupied trying to fix theirs.