Or whatever else.
I have a fixation for order. However, I am a fucking mess most of the time. They, The Sayers Of Things, say: Tidy house (room, desk), tidy mind. It doesn´t matter how much I tidy my room, believe me. It´s pointless, as my mind will remain quite broken and with the remarkable ability of jumping from one memory to the next as if it was set to random, as if every breathe in shook the entirety of that vast collection of past events (or made up events, or dreams, or hopes, or Who, The Fuck Giver, knows.
I am sitting in the middle of my room and I have a mess of different objects surrounding me. I had to label some boxes, DO NOT OPEN, FEELINGS INSIDE as they were too dangerous to handle without a safety net or a safety couple of bottles of wine. But those boxes, to be fair, I didn´t fear anymore. Now the situation was somewhat easier but overall equally fucked up. Memory, thorn, memory, thorn. The boxes I am on about, I never open. I never go back and sort through, being struck by those feelings that their lids warned me about. I never do it just in case, and I don´t miss it.
And even though I never do it and I don´t miss it, I always have to decide what goes in the bin or what makes its way to a different location for me to sort through again in a few months. Me, The Decider Of Things, cannot even decide even though I don´t give a fuck, or so I say.
I rather have bloody hands than internal bleedings.