It’s nice to have order. Chaos sucks.
It’s nice to get rid of old useless things, clean it up a bit.
It’s nice to put your thoughts into carefully labelled folders.
It’s nice to be able to get a bunch of pretty boxes and stuff them with shit that doesn’t look good on your front shelf, shit that people shouldn’t see when they walk into your living room: an expired discount card, a boarding pass of a former lover, a manual for an air filter, a present from a deceased parent, a torn pearl bracelet, two broken alarm clocks, a keychain icon, pins that are dangerous around children, candles that have magic powers, old buttons, measuring tapes that aren’t supposed to measure anything because, no, like hell, you are not fat. It’s nice to label the boxes: ‘Writing’, ‘Music’, ‘Other’.
It would be nice to meet people like that, with labels conveniently attached to their foreheads: ‘Procrastinator’, ‘Mother Theresa’, ‘Teacher’, ‘Paedophile’.
It’s nice to find a crisp 10$ note in all the mess and think that it must mean something.
It’s nice to get rid of the ugly old stuff and keep what is precious forever.
It’s nice to think that you meet this person on a Friday morning so you could meet this other person on a Monday afternoon so you could go and make this other person who would become a famous artist, or may be fry six million people alive just because they annoyed him.
It’s nice to organize and label. It’s nice to put the boxes on the front shelf, glimmering and neat, red lilies against laminated white, and pretend the stuff inside is just as neat and tidy.
It’s nice to have order. Because chaos sucks.
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