Pitch.

I’m writing this in pitch black. My screen is on its lowest setting. My paper is black and the words are white, as contrast creates chaos which creates creativity. Or so my mind might want to think. My bed has 5 pillows on it. Two of which I sit up when I write. One of which sits on the side of my bed against the wall and seems to sit in silence waiting for me to actually put it under my head at night. The other two pillows are decorative. They are larger and almost always find themselves on the floor at the end of my bed, which happens to be right next to my bookshelf which holds over 200 books, half of which I haven’t read yet. Above the bookshelf on the left sits a wall with photos of Paris which happens to be right next to a window that overlooks the forest to the outside of my house. The photos of Paris counter the inevitable chaos that sits around my room. Papers line the floor with thoughts I had at midnight last night etched in odd pencil marks and ink spills. My clothes from the last week happen to be scattered on Ikea chairs and my desk which holds a couple books and pens from last year looks on in utter disarray. As I write this I understand that my room is something I care about. And yet, I don’t. The idea of nothingness has captivated the way I decorate. And maybe that’s the issue with aesthetics in my own world. I want to float, and the mirror that sits above my dresser that’s covered with more clothes and books, next to a drawer that is sat upward, with newspaper clippings plastered to the bottom and my trophies and medals from my soccer career scattered among it all has caused me to think a bit harder about the way I look. The way I dream. The way I want to move among the world. Music from my headphones playing from odd radio playlists on Spotify seem to echo the dreams of a world I haven’t achieved yet. And maybe that’s the whole reason I write. Maybe that’s the whole reason my room is perpetually messy, but never dirty. Maybe that’s why my world is so captivated by the way music captures the essence of an aesthetic. And maybe that’s why I try so hard to write late at night after listening to music for an hour that’s meant to cause me to dream a bit harder about a world I want to live in. Maybe, or maybe this thought experiment is too odd for anyone to understand. But in any case, I still have over a 100 books to finish by the time I move out to college and beyond, and I still have chores to do in the morning. And an essay to turn in tomorrow. And so many things that counter the idea of an aesthetic, and yet I chase it.