My room has been said to be a mess. Yes. It is is mess though the definition of a mess to you is what I see as neat.
I do not have dirty laundry. Never.
I clean my room.
But my room is filled with “trash” because of the novels, books filled with my stories and sometimes I scribble on papers.
The papers with my attempt at drawing.
My embroidery threads and the cut up fabrics.
Its my little heaven of magical land with all my favorite things that you so crave to clean but your forgetting its not your room but mine.
I hang on to things and when I get tired of this things is when I’ll throw them away but not on your terms.