I finally finished putting my house in order today.
The whole process took four days stolen out of four harried weeks. The staggered nature of the entire affair grated on my nerves; few things unsettle an obsessive-compulsive as much as having to leave a task perpetually unfinished.
But now, the harmony of my tiny cosmos has been restored, with bags, binders, books, CDs, clothes, papers, sheets and shoes hung, shelved, stacked, folded, filed and stored in their usual symmetrical and color-coded fashion. Not a single thing is out of place—not even the umbrella drying neatly on the kitchen floor.
I feel like I can finally breathe.
The only thing marring my sense of satisfaction is the awareness—born from the chaos of the last few months—that relying on order to establish a sense of peace is an inefficient way of going about the entire business. At the end of the day, the universe has a preference for entropy; it’s all nice and good if we can keep our house clean, but God forbid we rely on its neatness to feel a semblance of tranquility. If we must learn to be content, it must be in the face of any and every circumstance.
Still, I’m going to enjoy my little haven of neatness while it’s in its current condition. Entropy will have its time again soon, but this moment is mine.