I am on the brink of being consumed by my clutter.
Just to write this very post, I had to make a clear square of space upon my desk of knickknacks and papers and books and water bottles.
For a while now, I have been struggling with clutter in my life, and nothing has manifested this issue before my eyes more than my room. The clutter of my emotions are tucked right in with the interminable mound of clothes on my desk chair, my desires lie on the floor with that one shoe looking for its pair, my goals and dreams crowding along with the half-finished books on my bedside table. The walls of my room catch the splatter of my mind. I have so much stuff.
And part of this is on purpose. As the opposite of a minimalist, I strive to fill my line of sight with as many colors, shapes, and objects I possibly can in a manner of controlled chaos. Like art. They even have a word for it:
Clutter-core.
It is precisely the opposite of minimalism — it is maximalism — and encourages organized chaos, an explosion of artistic expression in the form of objects and colors and mismatched everything. But somehow it all matches. I have taken this liberty of organized chaos straight to the walls of my room, making it a museum of stuff: necklaces, Polaroids, old doodles, records, show tickets, CDs, posters, buttons, bottlecaps, all taped up in a way that…
