If I could clean up my life as easily as I clean up my apartment…
I’d wipe away my regret, removing soot and stains, just as I clean my windowsills. A simple task performed every month or two, swiftly sweeping away the nasty built up grime that settles.
I’d rinse off all my fears, discarding dirty signs, as effortlessly as spraying Windex in the mirror, and removing remaining spots. Suddenly my reflection looks back in the mirror, unimpeded by cloudy streaks.
I’d scrub away past transgressions, dirty spots scattered throughout my home. Some places a quick brush does the trick, other spots I labor over for a moment or two- or maybe more- but in the end the floor is sparkling clean.
I’d vacuum up my doubt, not missing a single spot, effortlessly gliding all over the floor, sucking up forgotten fuzzies and debilitating dusts, running the vacuum back and forth until confident the floor is clean enough.
I’d attack my addictions, with a coarse cleanser and aggressive scrub. Tirelessly attacking stains hidden beneath the rug and tucked away in closets, dirty places only I know about that never show but decay me from the inside out.
I’d whitewash all my memories, spraying a fragrant scent, after opening all windows and letting it all air out. Perfume replaces odor then fresh air removes perfume, as I carefully recall memories I wish to loom.
And when I’m almost finished I wander room to room, scrutinizing each last spot that shows a sign of ruin- anxieties, angers, atrocities- flawed priorities, hang ups, improprities- a dust or a scrub, a brush or a tug- every spot clean, every place rubbed.
At the end of the day, I relax with a sigh, pleased with the newness, impressed by the light. My home is in order, if only for now, and I swear to clean living, pretending it’s the only way I know how.
If only I could clean up my life as easily as I clean my apartment…