“Got no imagination to clutter up my head” ~ Blondie
Or, as defined by my dictionary
Clutter (n): an untidy heap or mess of objects, a state of untidiness
There’s been a lot of things written about decluttering recently; only keeping things that bring you joy and folding your socks. Even my mother used to say “a tidy bedroom equals a tidy mind” when she wanted to get me to tidy my room. But I think life can be made too pristine, too sterile.
I own a lot of stuff. That band t-shirt that would be a barely legal crop top on me now may delight me and horrify me to a degree but it was the first one I ever bought and I don’t want to get rid of it. The mismatched mugs, the piles of books in no particular order except what pleases me, the postcards arranged haphazardly around the the laptop and cluttering most of the table. This is my life, this is a part of what defines me. Why should I tidy it all away?
And I’ve also got stuff in my head and in my heart. Good stuff, bad stuff, brightly coloured amazing stuff. Just sometimes I don’t know where to put it all. No amount of neatly folded socks is going to change that.
If I were wrapped up as a present the bow would be shiny but coming untied, the contents bursting out from the paper, and when you’d studied the instructions you’d see you’d have to send off to the manufacturer for some missing parts.
This is me. I am not a clean surface. My life is not neatly folded. Nor do I ever want it to be. Don’t declutter me, don’t make me sterile, I’m fine as I am.