Ziggy didn’t tidy things up.
He tidied up disorder.
If he walked into a room that was too perfect, he would worry.
He nudged a cushion out of place.
Turned a chair a few degrees.
Left a slipper where it made no sense at all.
That way, the room could breathe.
Once, he entered a house where everything was impeccable.
Books aligned.
Chairs perfectly parallel.
Silence standing in a row.
Ziggy sat down.
He thought about it.
Then he did a huge job.
He moved a pencil.
Just one.
The next day, something strange happened:
someone found an idea right there, next to the crooked pencil.
From then on, Ziggy travelled a lot.
To offices that were too tidy.
To kitchens that were too clean.
To thoughts that were too well arranged.
He didn’t make a mess.
He made space.
When they asked him why, he answered only with his tail:
if everything is already in its place,
where do you put something new?
Because disorder doesn’t break things.
It makes them begin.