Some people clean as if they are following a checklist.

Wipe the table. Mop the floor. Take out the trash. The surface looks presentable, and that is considered done. Unless you point it out, they genuinely see nothing wrong. But look a little closer and you will find dust in the seams, residue in the corners, furniture backs coated in a quiet ecosystem of stickiness and time. It is dirty in a complete, self-contained way yet ignored with complete confidence.

The strange part is that this does not bother them. It is not that they cannot see. They have simply turned off the act of seeing.

For a long time I wondered whether I was the one being excessive. Was I too fixated on details? Too unwilling to “let it go”?

Later I realized that my persistence in cleaning is not about neatness. It is about seriousness.

I am not someone who polishes every day. I can be lazy, too. But when I truly decide to clean, something shifts in me. I kneel down. I scrub slowly and deliberately. I pick at years-old buildup. I pull neglected corners into the light places that usually remain invisible. Not because I enjoy exhaustion. But because I understand that cleaning is a form of attention.

Cleanliness is not a burden. It is an act of care.

You illuminate the parts of time that went unnoticed. You realign yourself with a space and say: I see you. I have not reduced you to background. And in that act, you also see yourself again you realize you still care.

For me, cleaning is not about whether something is technically clean. It feels more like repairing a relationship: between myself and the space, between emotion and flow, between scattered energy and reclaimed presence.

Some people only need surfaces to shine. But I do not want surfaces. I want to walk into a room and feel that it has been treated with sincerity not merely passed over.



—— XC Scribbles · 壹佰壹拾陸 CXVI 🧽