Writings in the Sand

Revolving

I have a form of mental illness. I don't know what category it falls under. Perhaps it is a neurosis or some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder or maybe it's just some hidden well of hope that bubbles up to the surface now and again, but it's definitely not normal. I know this because all those around me say it's not normal.

See, I have this need to rearrange the furniture. Not constantly, just frequently. Maybe three or four times a year, tops. I can't say when the urge strikes or what causes it to strike, but once the thought of rearrangement sparks in my soul, I cannot stop thinking about it. I appear to be watching TV, or typing on my laptop, or even calmly knitting round and round as the leg of the sock on my needles lengthens, but what is really going round and round is the furniture on the imaginary floor plan in my head.

Normal people tell me everything is fine as it is. I know that they really just hate to be bothered with all the fuss when the furniture starts to rotate round the room. And no one welcomes the uncovering of secret sins hiding beneath the formerly stationary seating. Now the dropped wrappers and odd socks come to light, covered in dust and cat hair.

It's all futile, really. The truth is that I hate all my furniture and the room is uncommonly boxy with doors and windows in exactly all the wrong places so that there is no good or right place for a long sofa, or the right angle for the chair so that the television is well in view or even a spot where the light from the window or the lamp is not glaring off the TV screen.

Still, deep down inside, I harbor a tiny hope that if I just keep moving the furniture around, I may accidentally hit upon the arrangement that makes it all agree with each other and nestle into a logistic harmony with the room's construction.

Until that happens, I am doomed to keep it all revolving.