How much space makes a home?
Four walls, a roof and somewhere to lay my weary body. . .
I look at the heaps of clothing washed and dried, waiting to be sorted and tidied away into my drawers or hung in the shaky skeletal cage I use as a wardrobe. In the corner, behind the door there is a growing mountain of dirty laundry held within a blue IKEA bag. It will be washed and it will join the heap. My little table and the top of my chest of drawers are littered with scraps, books and a collection of miscellaneous items, weird, wonderful and random. By my bed there are books, diaries, notebooks, cards celebrating a variety of occasions, some lego and other ornaments.
There is barely enough space for my possessions.
Some I stow in boxes under my bed. In the dark I forget to remember them.
It does not take much to keep me but if there is one thing that I miss, it is having a workspace. Upon this workspace I could order my disorderly papers and if would offer me the comfort to read and write as I please.
I want my organised mess to spill over my desk- not the floor and cardboard boxes.
My room is a warehouse of stored ambition, discarded and or disused materials. Writing, reading, coveted books and fading script, it holds the ghost of yesterday, last month and last year.
What I need is an eye for this storm, an epicentre for this quake of thoughts and hopes and plans.
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