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In my perfectly painted room All my books in order Small animal figurines I like to own Line up straight inside the glass cabinet that is also paintakishly clean by me. Once? Twice ? Thrice in a day.
Everything is spotless.
All my artworks on my walls, Straight and alligned. My working table at the side, Have not a speck of dust. Pens and papers are piled on the side neat and perfectly.
I look around hapilly, It's perfect. And then I realize everything is crooked, But I don't mind. I can just clean again anyway.
Messes irritates me, And I notice that I always cleaning the same mess OVER AND OVER.
And I have a NIGHTMARE, Nightmare while I am wide awake. And that consist of my thoughts that makes me cringe, My own hand! Oh! I should keep this clean. Avoiding people to TOUCH ME not minding to offend them.
I hate DIRT, Who likes them, right? But don't DARE to tell me we're the same.
I do not TOUCH doorknob with my hands, Because it freaks me out with belief that so many germs, And stranger have touched them With whatever you might think of.
Yet I have no choice but to open the door, With the thinking that I can just WASH MY HANDS Three times?
Five times?
We'll I don't actually count so maybe
Ten times.
Routines and rituals are a Daily task. Checking and rechecking consume my day. Things I own always have their proper places, and Doing things out of order will make me go CRAZY.
