In the end, we all fail. We all do. In the end, all there is is ash and dirt. In my younger years, I let this disuade me from cleanliness and tidiness and order. I reveled in filth. I looked upon domestos as a caveman would look upon a wireless router, with a mixture of boredom and filthy superiority.
If the entire universe, countless millions of stars, neat space and messy dust all tend towards decay, towards entropy, what is the point of me making my bed every morning?
The indifference, the predominant emotion of the unvierse was liberating. Then I became defiant.
Fuck the universe and fuck themodynamics.
As I got older, I discovered the joy of order and the joy of defining the universe
I became obsessed with the joy of tidy. Every dream is better with neat parameters and every room is better if it is tidy. Is there a better feeling than walking alone through your tidied house? Serried ranks of your posession orderly on parade? I don’t think so
I understand the transience of tidiness. I understand one day, one day not soon enough, all I will be is dust scattered through the cosmos. Maybe the dust I refuse to allow to settle on my windowsill is the dust of saints and geniuses (geni?). In the blink of an eye the straight lines will blur and mess will encroach. Soon my kids will come home, then my wife who thinks a great place to leave shoes is the top of the stairs for instance. My own universe, chaotic. All the universe is filling with light escaping from earth, so, scattered amidst the chaos of the universe is fragments of light from my ordered house.
I’ve no idea if any of this makes sense tbf I am very drunk indeed