I. The Whispering Clutter of the Unseen Realm

In the decaying halls of my ancestral home—perched grimly upon the edge of Arkham’s forgotten wood—I encountered an infestation unlike any other. Not of rats, nor of the swarming things that slither beneath dreams, but of objects. Unspeaking, unliving, yet possessed of a malign will that grew over decades. A teacup once cherished. A sweater from a summer long eroded. Books whose pages whispered in the dark. These things… they lingered.

It was then that I received, by post most foul, a tome wrapped in pale silk. The name etched upon the cover: “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.” I trembled—for I felt a presence move within the ink itself.

II. Commence With Clothing: Vestments of Forgotten Selves

You must begin with the garments—the second skins of bygone identities. Heap them into a great, mountainous pile in your chamber’s center, as though summoning the dead from their crypts. One by one, seize them. Grasp them in shaking hands. And ask:

“Does this spark joy?”

Should the answer be “yes”—a pure and eldritch glimmer in the hollowness of your soul—you may keep it. If not, you must thank it. Yes, give gratitude, lest it return with vengeance. Then send it away, into the outer void of donation or flame.

Beware the garments that answer back.

III. Books: Tomes of Forbidden Lore

Books are next—oh, sweet fool! Here lies danger. Pile them high, but resist the siren call to open them, for their contents may pull you into reverie or madness. Touch each spine, and ask again:

“Does this spark joy, or merely the illusion of knowledge?”

Discard without guilt, for knowledge once gained but no longer needed is but a whisper from a dead god.

Should you come across a journal… burn it. The self you once were is not who you are now. That self is best kept buried beneath the floorboards of consciousness.

IV. Komono: The Miscellany of Madness

This category… oh gods… this category. Scissors, charms, cords whose functions you have forgotten yet fear to discard—these infest drawers and crawl spaces like the spawn of Azathoth. Proceed with caution and gloves thick enough to keep the memories from seeping into your flesh.

Each item must be held to the light. Be wary of sentimental attachments; they are traps. Ask the question. Then ask it again.

V. Sentimental Items: Relics of Eldritch Emotion

Here is the final gate—the sanctum of all you cannot release. Photos warped with age. Letters written in a hand you no longer recognize. A child’s shoe, its pair forever lost to time. These are not items, but vessels.

Touch them, yes—but only if you dare. Some may contain echoes of what you once felt. Others will be hollow, like a shell that once held a soul. Keep only what breathes joy. Let the rest pass into shadow.

VI. The Ritual of Placement: Seal the Gates

When the discarding is complete, you must return the surviving items to their sanctuaries. They long for this. Each object craves its rightful resting place. Fold your garments into geometries most unnatural—vertical, sharp, precise, as though sealing something ancient into slumber.

Let every category have its dominion. Clutter is not random—it is a summoning. Space is clarity. Tidiness is containment.

VII. The House Now Breathes

When all is done, and the stars once more align above your dwelling, you will feel it—a presence now stilled. The house will no longer weep in the night. The air will become clean. And you, poor mortal, will know peace.

But remember: the joy must be real. For joy is not merely happiness. It is recognition. It is resonance. It is the voice of a long-buried truth that murmurs, “You may remain.”

And if you discard that which truly sparked joy?

The house will know.

And it will wait.

Ia! Ia! Tidiness fhtagn!