Clutter

This is a piece I do not want to write. But the topic keeps flitting across my consciousness, harassing me with its clattery insistence.

My resistance arises from fear. I fear writing about the clutter I can see because inevitably, inexorably, it will lead to writing about the clutter I can’t see – the clutter inside.

Clutter is cleverly unobtrusive in its assault tactics. A pair of earrings on the living room end table. A few dirty dishes left in the sink. A sweater on the back of a dining room chair. Unsorted mail stacked on the couch arm. It all adds up. It quietly accumulates, one piece at a time. Nothing major. Just a little here, a little there. A box of Lincoln logs abandoned by the grandchildren. A ball. A stuffed toy. A sewing box on the sofa.

What happened to my perfectly de-cluttered apartment!?!?!