My laptop screen is cluttered with twelve open tabs, eighteen bookmarks on the bar and nine programmes pinned to the taskbar.
Above my once white desk, a busy corkboard showcases a vacancy rejection letter mocking the neighbouring job interview pamphlet. A number of never used hair clips, entrance tickets to faraway places I once found myself in, reminders and notes on scenarios that never came true, expired vouchers, a pension plan, a family tree from the saga I’ve been reading for a decade.
Several motivational / inspirational / sentimental postcards and pictures are blue tacked to the wall, their texts and images spurring me on, reminding me of what is important, what I want to become.
My notebook and phone rest on my right, and I wonder how they don’t retain my body heat – I handle them so much. At least they show signs of constant rubbing and dropping in their chipped, scratched, faded covers.
A large empty mug with a teaspoon almost disappearing in it, the taste of the cold coffee still lingers on my tongue.
Post it notes lie next to an empty ice cream cone wrap, my watch and a clock mismatch tick away the time.
A biscuit tin, now filled with an IKEA brochure and sightseeing leaflets from a recent holiday. I kept the box because it’s pretty, but I can’t see the pattern that drew me to it from the tissue box and make up mirror covering its surface.
There’s a small looking drawer to the left, but it can hold an amazing amount of stationary clutter, my scissors and pink blue tac rest in peace with half a dozen nail polishes. The highlighters and colourful drawing pins brighten up the messy landscape, the glue stick is friendly with the double sided scotch tape, and the cork screw hints at my partial fondness to bottled cider.
The two shelves underneath the drawer are in fierce competition, seeing which one of them can be more useful. While the upper shelf holds a large number of books and notepads, giving space to my barely ever used any more tablet and filofax flex, the lower shelf bears the weight of heavy textbooks and knowledge enough for a few years at university.
A small unit next to the wall to my left holds an unknown amount of beauty products, three of which I might use on a daily basis. The rest of the items (hair products I dare not use, moisturisers I forget to use, body spray I don’t like to use) mock my wish to be a girly girl with not self discipline.
Further down the left, squeezed between the beauty unit and my divan bed, the bedside table stands relentlessly with the cracked top and oh so many times superglued drawers. I admit I overfilled it with secrets, mechanic, electric, paper secrets that I want to keep close by but hidden. I only leave around three of my currently read books, a small black budget lamp, a half empty, thousand times refilled water bottle and my inconsistently updated five year diary.
Underneath my large bottom is my beloved chair, it swivels, rolls, twists, leans back, supports my sides and hugs my back.
I guess it is safe to say that I am a messy person, but if anyone had access to my personal pinterest boards and my dozen or so notebooks, they would know that I am a wannabe organisation freak. I guess I am used to my clutter, and it comforts me.