As I continued to slog through the manifestation of futility, known as cleaning my room, more and more I was faced with a disturbing notion.
That this may not actually be my room.
I recognized the eclectic collection of do-dads and accessories both as they were and where they came from. I can recall a time when I wore these strange combinations of outfits, though the memories were rarely recent.
Entire sections of my humble library were made up of unopened books. Scraps of paper upon which was scribbled in my had; words whose origin I cannot determine. Were these my thoughts once, or a message recorded at the behest of another.
Whose life had been living with these things?
What stranger occupied my space?
And what was more: who I was to feel such a foil to this nonperson?
Where was I to be found in all of this unrecognizable rubble?
And so, with all of these assorted nick-knacks and trinkets scattered about, I set out to assemble the puzzle that the pieces should show me.
Anything, to avoid actually cleaning my room...
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