What is wrong with me? I see the word “nest” and my brain immediately goes to images of a nest of tarantulas (which I have seen, terrifying, even if you’re not particularly scared of spiders) or a nest of vipers (which I have once very narrowly missed walking into). It’s mainly scary things that come to my mind. None of the pretty birds and cute little chicks for me, it’s all venomous monsters and danger.
Maybe it’s because I’m not a nesting sort of a person. Oh you know what I’m talking about, some people walk into a place and start making it their own within the first few minutes – a nice photo here, a cozy pillow there, some knick-knacks, books, pretty things and all of a sudden an anonymous room is transformed. Well, that’s not me. I can make a big mess the instance I enter a new abode (but I am VERY good at it, it’s quite impressive, I can make a mess out of nothing, give me a pristine hotel room and 5 minutes and you’ll see for yourself), but that’s about that.
It’s not that I don’t like being in a comfortable space, it’s not that I wouldn’t necessarily like to make a room/apartment/house feel my own, I would rather like that. I decorate and furnish my “dream house” in my head quite a bit. It’s just that partially I am afraid to commit to the project (what’s the point of making a space your own, putting time, effort and money to do that, if you’re just going to move shortly?), but mostly I’m just lazy. Because I know that I wouldn’t really need to put a lot of effort, or time, or money, there are a lot of small improvements I could make with barely any cost at all. And a few years of living somewhere is not exactly “short-term”. But I just don’t. Admittedly, moving to different countries a few times has scarred me but mostly I just couldn’t be bothered.
I mean, eventually, over time, if I stay somewhere for a while, the place does start to feel a little bit more like home – especially if I have my books there. Incidentally, my concept of decorating a room consist mainly of putting up bookshelves filled with books. Many, many bookshelves, with many, many books. Organically, my papers, pens and notebooks get strewn around, my craft supplies are at an arms reach, I have all my cooking stuff in order, there’s a great big box of spices and an array of teas, sauces, vinegars and condiments in the kitchen, there are some family photos here and there and my teddy bears and assorted creatures reign supreme. I have my cozy blanket (I have got to have a cozy blanket wherever I live, it’s absolutely essential and it’s one of the first things I always buy in a new place), I have my comfy pjs and my big mugs for drinking tea. I have a teapot or 3, and a bunch of miscellaneous stuff in a big plastic box (you know: cables, chargers to who-knows-what, screws, bits and bobs that just accumulate without you even noticing, all of it could be probably thrown out, but you always think it might come in handy at some point, so you keep it).
I’m not a nesting type. But honestly, I may be reaching the point in my life where I kind of would like to be.