There is a profound spiritual difference between "clutter" and "trash."
Clutter is simply energy that has stagnated. It is a pile of unread mail that represents procrastination; it is a drawer of tangled cables that represents a lack of connection. Clutter can be fixed. It can be sorted, categorized, and contained in breathable, sustainable bamboo bins.
Trash, however, is irredeemable. Trash rots. Trash smells. Trash takes up space that could be used for negative space, which, as we all know, is the most luxurious thing a person can own.
I was currently standing in the living room of Jaxson (with an 'x') Thorne, and I was trying to decide which category he fell into.
"Babe, listen to me," Jaxson shouted into his phone. He was pacing across the imported Turkish rug I had just spent twenty minutes vacuuming into perfect, tessellated stripes. His sneakers were leaving scuff marks. Scuff marks. "I don't care what the SEC says. It's not fraud if everyone gets rich, right? It's a community-building exercise. Just dump the coin. Dump it!"
I adjusted the cuffs of my beige cashmere cardigan and took a deep, centering breath. Inhale clarity. Exhale chaos.
"Mr. Thorne?" I said. My voice was soft, calibrated to a frequency that usually soothes toddlers and startled horses. "We discussed the shoeless policy in the living area."
Jaxson ignored me. He spun around, knocking a stack of coaster-less energy drink cans onto the floor. Sticky, neon-green liquid began to seep toward the rug.
My left eye twitched. Just once.
"Hold on," Jaxson barked at his phone. He looked at me, his eyes rimmed with red, likely from three days of staring at crypto charts and snorting Adderall. "What? Who are you again?"
"I'm Sloane," I said, smiling. It was my Client Smile—warm, non-threatening, and completely vacant behind the eyes. "From Pure Space. You hired me to 'lifestyle-optimize' your penthouse before the Architectural Digest shoot on Friday."
"Right. The maid."
"Professional Organizer," I corrected gently. "I'm here to curate your environment."
"Yeah, whatever. Look, honey, can you just pick that up?" He gestured vaguely at the puddle of energy drink, then turned his back on me. "No, bro, listen to me. The feds are just noise. White noise. We're alpha. We don't listen to noise."
I looked at the puddle. It was expanding. Aggressively.
I walked over to my kit—a sleek, leather-bound rolling case that contained the tools of my trade. I bypassed the microfiber cloths. I bypassed the organic lavender surface spray. I reached for the enzymatic heavy-duty cleaner, but my hand paused.
My fingers brushed against something else. The "Disruptor of the Year" award Jaxson had insisted on displaying on the coffee table. It was a heavy, jagged shard of lucite and granite. It was ugly. It disrupted the flow of the room's energy. It had sharp edges.
Does this item spark joy? I asked myself.
I looked at the award. No.
I looked at Jaxson, who was now kicking a pile of vintage vinyl records I had just alphabetized so he could find a charging cable.
Does this human spark joy?
The answer was a resounding, hollow no.
In my line of work, we follow the S.P.A.C.E. method: Sort, Purge, Assign, Contain, Equalize.
I had Sorted the room.
Now, it was time to Purge.
The act itself was surprisingly ergonomic.
Jaxson was ranting about "diamond hands" when I approached him from behind. I didn't run. Running is frantic; running creates air currents that disturb dust. I glided.
I picked up the "Disruptor of the Year" award. It was heavier than it looked—good build quality, terrible design.
"Mr. Thorne," I said.
"What now?" he snapped, spinning around.
He walked right into the swing.
The granite base of the award connected with his temple with a sound that was less like a thud and more like a crack—crisp, decisive, like breaking the seal on a fresh jar of pasta sauce.
Jaxson's eyes went wide. He didn't scream. He just looked purely confused, as if his brain couldn't process a world where someone interrupted his monologue. He wobbled.
"You're making a mess," I whispered.
He fell. Unfortunately, he didn't fall gracefully. He crashed into the glass coffee table, shattering it. Shards of glass mixed with the spilled energy drink and the trickle of blood starting to pool around his head.
I sighed. A long, weary exhalation that deflated my lungs.
"Great," I said to the silence. "Now I have to spot-treat the rug and replace the glazing."
I stood over him for a moment. He twitched once, then went still.
The room instantly felt lighter. The chaotic energy dissipated. The jagged, frantic noise of his voice was replaced by the low, soothing hum of the HVAC system. It was like popping a blister. The pressure was gone.
I checked my Apple Watch. 11:15 AM. I had scheduled the "Living Room Edit" until 12:30 PM. I was actually ahead of schedule.
Cleaning up a crime scene is not so different from cleaning up after a fraternity party, or a toddler's birthday, or a divorce. It's all just biological matter and bad decisions.
First, I engaged the smart-locks on the front door from my phone. Privacy is key to a focused workflow.
Next, I rolled out the heavy-duty contractor bags. I always use the black ones; they're indispensable for concealing oddly shaped objects, and black goes with everything.
I knelt beside Jaxson.
"Okay, let's assess," I murmured to myself. "We have organic waste. We have rigid clutter."
I stripped him first. His clothes were fast fashion—polyester blends that wouldn't breathe. Garbage. I tossed them into a bag.
Then, the body.
People think moving a dead body is difficult, but it's all about leverage. It's simple physics. If you can move a solid oak armoire, you can move a 180-pound man with weak core strength. I rolled him onto the tarp I kept in the bottom of my kit (originally intended for painting projects, but versatility is a virtue).
Getting him into the oversized suitcase Jaxson had left unpacked in the hallway was a bit of a squeeze. He wasn't flexible.
"Yoga would have saved you, Jaxson," I muttered, tucking his knee up toward his chest. "Stiffness is a sign of a rigid mind."
Zip. Click. Done.
Now, for the aesthetics.
I treated the rug with a mixture of hydrogen peroxide and lemon essential oil. The blood lifted beautifully. The energy drink was actually harder to remove, requiring a bit of steam, but eventually, the wool fibers returned to their pristine, cream-colored glory.
I swept up the glass. I wiped down the award (it was surprisingly easy to clean, non-porous surfaces are a blessing). I placed it back on the shelf, but this time I centered it properly.
I spent the next forty-five minutes finishing the job I was hired to do.
I color-coordinated the bookshelf (ROYGBIV, naturally). I folded the throw blankets using the waterfall technique. I aligned the blinds so the light hit the floor in perfect, geometric bars.
When I was finished, I stepped back.
The penthouse was breathtaking. Without Jaxson's aura of toxicity polluting the air, the natural light seemed brighter. The lines of the furniture looked sharper. The room could finally breathe.
It was perfect.
I took out my phone. I needed content for the Pure Space Instagram. The algorithm punishes inconsistency.
I framed the shot carefully. The cream rug, the sun-drenched sofa, the perfectly organized bookshelf in the background. No body. No blood. Just peace.
I snapped the photo. I applied the "crema" filter to soften the shadows.
Caption: Sometimes, you have to clear out the negative energy to make room for the new. 🌿✨ #PureSpace #Organization #DeclutterYourLife #PenthouseLiving #Minimalism #WellnessJourney
I posted it. Immediate likes.
I grabbed the handle of the oversized suitcase. It was heavy, but it had 360-degree spinner wheels, so it glided across the floor with a satisfying whisper.
As I rolled Jaxson toward the service elevator, my phone buzzed. It was a DM from a potential client.
@RealEstateRob: Hey! Saw your work. My place is a disaster. My wife says I'm a hoarder lol. Are you free next week?
I smiled at the screen. A hoarder. That sounded like a challenge. A big project. Lots of clutter to purge.
"Yes, Rob," I typed back as the elevator doors dinged open. "I'd love to help you sort through your life."
I stepped into the elevator, the suitcase rolling obediently beside me.
"I have an opening on Tuesday. Let's get you organized."