Tuesday, 28 January 2014

Space

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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