God I remember when I use to romanticize everything. It was only a couple of days ago. But the pinnacle of my wild fantasies was in college when I thought being surrounded my favorite things was attainable like a bookshelf that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Lights filtering in through a big-ass window and plants adorned around the room. I was so young lol and also I think that was mostly my mom’s dream, but it sounded wonderful so I inherited it as my dream. Now I sleep with half eaten noodles left on my desk overnight with smelly pants and my dog’s beat-up toy. Still got my books, thankfully (and that’s always expanding, but now I’ve asked for a kindle so that dream of the never-ending bookshelf, which is some harry pooter blarg, might deteriorate back into the subconscious). But it’s so inexplicably who I am because I am a hot mess with no eye for aesthetics. I’ll leave that to those who are actually bothered by a clustered environment. It’s crazy, my mom says she actually has a harder time breathing in my room than in any other rooms in the house. I didn’t know the items in your room took up THAT much space. It seems like common sense sure. Or is it basic human psychology: believing the more things in your room, the less air to breathe so you trick your brain to believe that? Although it seems like more of a dust issue and a potential inner hoarder waiting to be released from its cages. Anyway, no more twinkly eyed wonderment of how I might design my own apartment in the future because I can’t even get up to do things for my own health (like use the toilet).