My flat mate has just returned from a month in his native Germany, and you can tell: toiletries strewn across the bathroom, bowls and mugs MIA, Dr Pepper and pizza lying around the kitchen.
I like everything to have a place. Cosmetic products neatly spaced on the bathroom shelf. Dr Pepper and cereal boxes stowed away in cupboards.
My life’s like that, too. Everything has its place. Hurt goes here; instinct here; logic here. Shame and anger, well I hide them so deep not even I know where they are stowed.
Pity it doesn’t work that way. Life is messy.
Gloriously messy.
I’m fighting to unshackle my emotions. They’ve been kept buried for so long, most of the time I don’t even recognise them. I’ve lived a long time in logic, in my head. But that’s no way to live, to really live. Fear and hurt and embarrassment and joy and love… they all have a role to play.
The mess helps us know we are alive.
Maybe I know this deep down. I like order, but when my flatmate was gone? Books strewn across the living room table; dishes stacking up for days on end in the kitchen.
Maybe I’ve known all along.
Welcome to the mess.
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