This room is a disaster, which is not a metaphor.
“This room” being the second bedroom in my apartment, the room I call my “studio.” When I was married, it was the bedroom. But then I was single and I wanted a smaller bedroom (since I had a smaller bed) and pushed everything that wasn’t bedroom related into this room.
My long, heavy desk with the dual monitor computer set up. The drafting/art table that desperately needs to be replaced. Random shelving holding random art supplies and what is left of Mother’s vinyl collection (one shelf of eclecticism). Lots of boxes packed with the detritus of history.
Anyway, point being, it’s cluttered and awkward, which would be fine if it were also “cozy” but it’s not.
The reason it is a disaster, though, has nothing to do with any of that. It’s a disaster because I’ve let it ferment. Like so much I’ve loved, I put it aside for Very Good Reasons(tm) and let matters stew until things are piled up over each other and stacked precariously high.
This cluttered retreat is not a metaphor. It is an example of poor values in action, of decisions made to avoid self-reflection. Let it all smother itself, and leave me in regretful peace.
I might try reorganizing it tomorrow.