who iam
- November 14, 2008
- ilovehoratio
- 1 Comment
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i stumbled across this when i was cleaning up...i thought i had no idea who i was bt theis is a pretty good explanaton:
My life is the epitome of clutter. It lurks everywhere, in my mind, my room, and in my ears.
In fact, my room is invaded by a mess from my mind. It is filled with mementoes of a recent childhood, a looming future and the ever present now. As usual my room is full of clutter. The floor is the main scape-goat reminding me of a war zone. Clothes like abandoned bodies litter the floor, cd’s like landmines and the mud of carpet occasionally shines through. My floor has become my closet; in my closet my dog is sleeping, curled up on yesterday’s uniform. In the corner, on the one square inch free I sit, ensconced in my current book, oblivious to my surrounds. “Lulu, Lulu, Lulu, Where the hell are you? Its dinnertime!” my mum yells repeatedly, becoming more and more annoyed. Finally she opens the door with a bang and almost trips over me. “Huh?” I glance up. “Was up?” “This room” Mum sighs in disgust and walks out.
My parents hate it but I revel in the clutter. It is mine, a sign that I exist, that I am not a figment of my own imagination. Call me paranoid if you like but I am petrified of leaving and not making a single mark on anything; friends, families, this earth. Its seems so unfair to me that not everyone has the chance to make their own clutter. Do the homeless on the street feel the same way that I feel in an empty room? That just being there almost classifies as non-existence. On earth there are no truly empty places, no vacuums. There is always filler; graffiti, garbage and even grass so how can it be that neatness is actually a virtue?
My ears are bursting with the sound of my eclectic music collection and the conversations swell around me. Occasionally there is also the wonderful quiet of solitude. The distant blare of the TV disturbs the background. Even in the middle of the night, there is never silence; a dull ringing haunts my ears. I hate the silence that could be there. I need this noise to make me feel like I am not alone in the world. With the distant blare of the TV in background, it’s Oprah, I think, or maybe that dreadfully terrible, but addictive show Laguna Beach. I never thought that I would sink to such all time TV lows. I lie on the grass in the sun and hear the sounds of a band jamming on the corner. They delight my ears, their bluesy-rootsy folk sound transporting me to a better place, Spain or somewhere like that, sitting in on a siesta and just soaking up the atmosphere. I dream as I’m laying here in the blazing sun, trying to do the homework I forgot to do all week. The guitar that does it, it’s hopeless; I put down my pen and give in to my imagination.
There is a speech disorder I discovered the other day. It’s called cluttering. I think I may be a clutterer. Cluttering is similar to stuttering but the sufferer is unaware of their problem. Instead they carry on, with their rapid speaking rate, erratic rhythm and poor grammar. Random words permeate the sentences. A famous clutterer is Winston Churchill. As Deso Weiss (a clutterer researcher said) about clutterers "Each of these contributors to world history viewed his world holistically, and was not deflected by exaggerated attention to small details. Perhaps then, they excelled because of, rather than in spite of, their [cluttering]." Well, then all hope isn’t lost for me, yet. To all but the best of friends it sounds like garbage. Where would we be without those people to tell us to slow down, take a breath and sort it all it out?
My mind is full of the unorganised, cluttered thoughts that roam freely there, day and night. Its 11:55 pm on Sunday night and like always I’m lying here awake. Sleep continues to evade me as my music drifts in one in ear and out the other. I daydream, in the dim hope that sleep will find its way to me. Tonight my mind runs to escape. I’m planning a better life than the one I’m stuck in. It all starts with running away; a $13 one-way trip to Melbourne. Then depending on what Victoria holds I might stay there and get a job, or else I’ll hitchhike up to Brisbane and live with my uncle. He would put me up. I could get a job and maybe he would let me do odd jobs at his work, though it’s quite a prestigious law firm. I lie there and my wistful thinking is interrupted by a gnawing voice that nags about the Pythagoras test I’m going to fail tomorrow, the clothes I forgot to wash and above all the sniping voice that whispers to me “You won’t ever get out. You’ll be stuck here forever, you know.” The voice is like a tripped switch and my mind goes blank, left as a tangled web of lyrics, triangles and hope.