heartshape

Mess-merized
Claudine M. Lim
Obcompfreak


I hate mess – from untidy lockers and junk-infested drawers to confused dispositions and disorganized lives. While most college bums prefer the ordered chaos of their rooms, I find myself rooted to a spot where I could write my to-do list (with notes to self and proposed budget for the month), fix my things, and wipe away dirt from the nearby end table.

People will never understand my unusual aversion to unattended dirt. Candy wrappers left on the carelessly painted floor, or clothes crawling out of the hamper, closet, or drawer, piling up to outstand Mt. Fuji, are my primary sources of eye strain. Dust forming animals in dark corners, gaining profit from its zoo business at unreachable, taken for granted areas (under the bed, at the back of lavishly decorated cabinets, or near the shoe rack) will never give me the clean, healthy fun I know I deserve.

Who am I kidding? I’m just like any normal human being (my friends doubt it but hey, this is my column, and I’m free to write anything I want) who practices hoops with crumpled papers on the trashcan, who loves writing notes on clean textbooks, and who sometimes leaves empty junk food wrappers on one of Sted’s tables.

But I really hate mess.

Can I say that everything gets messy? And this isn’t even about politics. In a blink of an eye, people get zapped and dumped on a big heap of mess – things that transcend literal mess, going beyond the outmoded garbage on the sidewalks or the accumulated dust in our living rooms.

Sometimes it bothers me when I listen to people whine about messy grades or messy relationships. How much more if I get involved with their messy lives? Trust me; playing audience to a litter of tall tales is definitely not one of my reasons for living. I throw my own wrappers, dust my own furniture, and clean my own space. It is as simple and as figurative as it sounds. I bear my own burdens, nurse my own insecurities, and solve my own problems.

But then, I do have to admit I get disappointed when I complain about anything under the sun; “anything” being the contributors of my messy state of being. I mumble about plummeting grades and chronic absences, distracted colleagues or unfinished projects, and condemn the world.

It seems so easy to spot the mess other people make and the racket of filth they leave behind, but when it comes to our own rubbish, we refuse to acknowledge it and end up yakking about the injustices of it all. We busy ourselves trying to muddle with other people’s mess that we fail to reprimand ourselves for creating a junkyard out of scraps, for stacking problems instead of sweeping them away immediately!

But come to think of it, life would be utterly boring without the presence of the undead, the unstoppable, and the inevitable grime. There’s nothing more exciting than the occasional Filth Festival that provides a little exercise to the brain, body, and soul. Nothing beats the tremors that run through your spine upon encountering an unexpected dilemma, and the victorious feeling after finding its solutions.

There’s nothing more intimate than helping a friend cry and curse over an estranged loved one; there’s nothing more jolting than a failing mark or a broken nail. There’s nothing more fulfilling than helping people tidy up their lives despite promises of not meddling. There’s nothing more reassuring than looking at the faces of those who are willing to support you no matter how disgustingly chaotic (or freakishly neat) you are.

It dawned on me that my friends and I often bond over the mess we’re in - various circumstances that disappoint us, or just things we want to change, things that need dusting. It amuses me how we complain, curse, and cry over dirt. Because in the end, we simply sweep them all away.