Water bottles. Empty, full and half full scattered on my night stand, under my bed, on the floor, on my dust collecting shelf. Clothes, both dirty and clean, laying on my coffee brown and black carpets. Hair clips of all colors lay everywhere as if someone threw them in the midst of an emotional avalanche. Green. Purple. Pink. Black. Orange. Blue. White.
Around me is a mess. A mess I’d like to clean, but my inner thoughts keep me too busy. As much as I’d like to clean this mess, my mind tells me I should worry about the little things that won’t matter in a year from now, like the people who enter and exit my life like a hotel instead. It seems that I’m the mess.