I like boxes. closed. neat. placed against a wall, not free standing.
everything has to be connected to something else. in lines. and systematic patterns.
neuroses, i have a bunch of.
Just like my boxes, i need my mind to be working in a closed form. my room has to be a closed circuit, working and not splitting somewhere, waiting to be fixed. it's not about the distraction. it's not about outside noise at all. i work fine with all the bustle and giggling wafting into my space. i just need my walls to flow, one into the next, without having to frog jump over some annoying open doorway.
And that is what you call my tantrum. fine, it is. it is my tantrum and it is an integral part of my theatrics. it really does not bite me that you have an issue with it so much as when you ask me to change it, to stop it and to make it fit your definition of 'not tantrum, not pampered'. it cannot just happen that my mind will gloss over the break in the block of space that i am perfectly adjusted to.
It's like a breach in the walls of a fortress that needs to be watched, and guarded and surveyed at every second moment. and if you think that there's something fishy with what i'm up to in here, then sit with me. come be a part of my box. but i must warn you that it will still be closed and being closed is not guarding me from the outside looking in. it is not even guarding me from inside looking out. it is just there so that the continuity of my space is unharmed.
*whispering audience*
'Loopy fruitcake, this one. completely batty.'
Yes, i hear you.
Yes, i am.
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