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Podcasts and laundry. Likely I’ll cook something too. Vacuum and rearrange my room around in sunlight and bergamot scented candles. My space a surrogate for something else I wish could be changed. Made more welcome by a lovely scent. Ordered and reordered to suit me. 
Thing is, I am no decorator. Though I can see and know great design, I can’t create it in any space. Be it a room or a heart or myself, any art to be found is an accident. I don’t know how I want it all to look. I can’t say what would be more pleasing beyond this insistence that it be different than it is now. 
All of it. Everything. Writing desk on another wall. Bed facing East West instead of north south. Books to a shelf instead of piled on a stand. Honest instead of cruel duplicity. Wanting me as much as was promised. Loved firmly and safely, not this paper bridge I knew I’d fall through before making a step. 
I think that if I owned my space it would be different. More care, more expense, more permanently considered, I would make a study of arrangement and content. For now, I just moved shit around when I get antsy. I know nothing about filling a permanent space with my own want. My own fulfilment. My own rest. Not a home, not a heart. Nothing. 
I can clean what I have though, and I can move shit around.