My bedroom was in shambles. First, I didn't know if I had a floor anymore. Second, I no longer could find a damn thing. My frustration blew this morning, and I woke up, grabbed two big black garbage bags, and got to work.

Six bags later, I'm just about finished. I had to box up my manga because my towering bookcase was overflowing onto the floor. I cleaned out the white plastic drawer thing I've had since collage (and have been using as a nightstand) and tossed it. Got rid of anything I don't use anymore -- clothes, electronics, the detritus of daily life.

The walls are empty of the sci fi posters I pinned up during middle school. A few Japanese fashion pages remain in the corner. But the walls are bare. You can see the holes from pins, the tape, the putty for hanging things.

After three times of purging, there isn't much left (other than hundreds of books). Shelves once teeming are empty. There are only five pieces of furniture in the room, leaving blank spaces, gaping white holes.

Standing back, tired after seven hours of work, it doesn't feel like my bedroom anymore. I get no sense of me-ness from it. My studio has become a comfortable haven, my safe place, and where most of my things are (bills, bag, art supplies, etc). Was this because my bedroom was so toxic? Or have I shifted?

Reading last night, I'm reminded of what one of the characters said. I'm paraphrasing, of course, but: what if it is us who are altered, and not the ground beneath our feet?

All that I was has been cleared from the room, and it stands as a blank canvas to who I will become. I feel like taking chalk to the walls, drawing and writing secret messages to be covered by coats of fresh paint, hidden by the new, but always there.