Everyone that comes into my room tells me I need to clean it. They tell me it's messy, that they don't understand how I can spend so much time in here. But I don't understand them.

I mean sure, the cracked yellow tile and chipping white paint on the walls exposing the avocado green from when my room was not my own is not the most appealing, but I don’t mind. And yes my dresser is piled with all the random knickknacks I collect, but where else am I going to keep the things I keep from my many adventures? And yes I should put away the pile of clothes that blocks my bookshelf, but why would I? What if I finally get a chance to wear that pink dress that has been on my floor for a week from a date that never happened? Why would I clean my room when I can tell you exactly where my cats leave their favorite toys? Sure I could fix my tower of squishmallows that haven’t been reorganized since I got number 100, but why would I? Why would I when I could tell you where all my favorite ones are even though I can’t see them all?

Sure I could straighten up my jewelry boxes so they aren’t falling off the shelves, but why would I? Why would I when they are in the perfect spot for my nieces to grab when they walk in and see that hot pink Bobby Jack jewelry box full of braceletsI have been saving just for them? Sure, I could fold the dinosaur blanket that sits on my desk or move the cat scratcher from the middle of my room so it's more convenient for me, but why would I? Why would I when they are where my cats like them the best? And sure my walls aren't decorated with beautiful landscapes and traditional works of art but why should they be? Why should they when I can tell you where all 12 of my dream catchers that hang around my room are from? Why would I decorate my wall with someone else's artwork when I can put up my own instead?

When people walk into my room they see a mess but I see me. I see my adventures, my memories, my feelings, my likes and dislikes. Sure I could clean my room, but why would I?

the chair i sit in is some expensive brand that has fancy features like a shiatsu massage button or heated cushions. my head doesn't hurt. i have a lamp with multi-colored bulbs (they aren't sold out at target in this universe). the overhead light has a dimmer switch. there is a notebook in every size and a pen in every color, all organized somehow (even though it's my workplace). the desk has drawers that i can put the notebooks and pens (and batteries, nail clippers, even the communist manifesto) inside. every bottle cap or bandaid i leave out disappears. my cup of water is full. the printer works.

A workplace.

A studio. Pop a stain of oaks, dark or just mundane brown.

Cherry wood too much, but not quite blacked down.

I think they would be thick, shelves about nearly an inch thick, with matching dividers to quarter the books apart.

One corner laid bare, open and ready to ensnare me in the latest project. A mendable mat of white and black. And a lazy Suzanne cup to the right, pushed to the far back against a decked windowsill that protrudes two inches and a quarter over said desk. Rows of drawers down to the left, beneath a thick slab of wood, no less than three inches thick. Adorned in handles of bronzed alloys, antiqued and filigree with a marble topper centered across the center mass of the round knob. I'd store little sharp tools, teeth, fangs, and claws, all things dead, and things cold and unliving there.

And to the right of said desk, a squared jig would lay, fill of rolled leathers, and under it would be, a drawer or two of metal and steel, metal cutters for my 5-ton press to the more right, sitting on a large work bench covered in all manner of things. Splitters, skivers, edgers, and some electric machines walled off to their right. A 3D printer, smaller, and a larger. A resin printer encased above them, working or not working diligently. It doesn't matter.

The lighting would be warm, not cool, with a burn yellow, almost orange hue. And the room would stretch on, rectangular, and fitting a door. I could continue on past it, back around full circle to the desk to the left of the book shelves, and a little podium would stand in the center of it all, with the most important books of all. Bright, faded nearly pastel blue engineering books in white letters, mold making too alongside burnt maroon nearly umber welding and brazing books with gold lettering. Another face stacked to the brim with electrical, home and small units, singular devices that execute codes. And so on, and so forth, all things far from ergonomic. An inventor space, darkly lit with brushed fern-muted walls, and a wood flooring covered in carpet to settle my cold withdrawals.

A quiet space. A space that only misses a bed. I don't think I'd ever step out of my tiny little shed. A room in a shop. A room in a house. It's warm, dark, and cozy, and I have no plans to yell or shout. I don't need anyone, no one. Not really. I can write, I can draw, and press keys on my backlit keyboard without feelings scrutinized, or small. No one there to feel like they need to stand tall. Tall over me, angry, and mean. Feeling like I'm threatening their space, when I just need. Peace and quiet, a place to recover from the whirl of it all. My tiny little space, maybe a bit decrepit and small.

So if you ever ask, where my perfect space lies. In a shop. In the woods. In the dark with no other eyes. I'm a solitary creature. I need a lot, but it's worth every bit of thing I produce whether it has a value or gives birth to all wonders of conversations and knitpicks or shames.

I write. I create. I just don't want to be named.

short, silver hair.

she was sitting across the room,

legs spread apart, open, sensual charisma,

a sex therapist stereotype.

i’d been crying,

telling her that they would always come after me,

after i’d slammed my door shut.

she described to me

this relaxation technique-

“the internal room” that no one can enter

without an invite.

i closed my eyes:

flowing, organic lines,

no sharp corners.

walls in subtle rainbow pastels and earthy tones that gently blend into each other.

big windows with open, cream-colored curtains, fresh air, light, and warmth

streaming in from all sides.

rich, golden oak floor, warm beneath my naked feet.

a hardwood bed with white linen bedding, neatly folded.

a cream-colored woolen carpet.

my small, cocoa-colored sofa and a wooden stool beside it.

a woven basket with my knitting projects next to some stacks of books.

nothing more- just some space, room to breathe,

room to heal, to grow.

the smell of sunlight- sweet patchouli, beeswax candles.

in one open window,

a set of wind chimes dangling,

dancing delicately in the breeze,

creating tranquil sounds.

The chair would have a sturdy back. The desk would have enough room I could move around easily. My feet would not reach the floor when I sit but neither would getting off the chair be a struggle. I would have a computer, and be in front of a window, but one that sealed airtight, so cold air wouldn't leak in from outside.

The room would have enough floor space that if I wanted to lie down I could. The floor would be comfortable to sit on, likely heated but wood flooring, so I could enjoyable walk barefooted without risking having staples embedded to the floor the way they embed themselves to my current carpet. The walls would be orange, perhaps with my own artwork decorating them.

The desk would be wooden, with a drawer underneath to stash sketchbooks and pens so they don't clutter the place. I'd have a myriad of pens, all different colors and thicknesses. There would always be a pen in easy reach, and my backpack would hang off the back of the chair instead of living on my floor like it does now.

The window would be clear, glass somehow unable to be stained or smudged over time the way real windows do, which would mean I could enjoy watching squirrel acrobatics just as I do now but more easily, without having to tilt my head around to avoid staring at smudged glass instead of scurrying rodents.