I finally realized today, why I am terrified of a museum clean, perfectly decorated and ordered house.
I’m talking about one of those houses where you’re afraid to be there as soon as you walk inside. It’s the falsity of it. The owner, or more commonly the owners wife, spends every waking minute putting their life into keeping the order. They welcome you in for whatever reason, and alarm bells go up. You know not to touch anything, not to interfere, and you feel like you are breaking the order just by being there. You feel like there is a monster living there, and the monster is meticulously, carefully hidden from view so that the whole world believes that everything is perfect.
The monster may be a hidden abuse or addiction that is going on…it may be the despair felt by one spouse controlled by the other…it may be a sense of personal failure…a failed dream, failed conception…it may be the shame of a buried criminal background….it’s anything that could taint that feeling of safety and inner peace we all want. The monster is that feeling that normally makes you want to lock your doors to keep it out, except the real horror is that it’s inside, hiding in plain sight.
The feeling I get when I walk into a home where there is clutter and disorganization is that at least this person has the courage to be honest. Their world, in all its imperfections, is in your face. Nothing is hidden, there is no falsity or lying going on. You feel the freedom in the air. I feel comfortable when I’m there. I’m not afraid to sit down, breathe deep, and laugh out loud with my head thrown back.
The real difference is that one place feels welcoming and projects expression, and the other projects rigid structure and a mind forced into closure. To each their own, but I appreciate the freedom.