I cleaned my place today. When I say “cleaned my place,” I mean that in the most extreme, aggressive sense possible. I sifted through boxes and boxes of paraphernalia and separated the useless debris from the important debris. When in doubt, I erred on the side of useless.
I ended up with five full trash bags of shit, and taking them down to the dumpster to get rid of them was surprisingly cathartic. There’s a weird pleasure I take in the notion that I sucked five trash bags’ worth of junk out of my apartment’s interstices.
It’s lighter in here now. I’ve regained a little control. I always feel like I’m drowning in the past, and that time’s piling up around me, et cetera. And left to myself, I have the unconscious tendency to let useless things accumulate, and then they serve as nostalgia triggers. I just hold onto stuff for no reason. Most of that stuff reminds me of what I don’t want to remember. Getting rid of that stuff is a way to strike back.
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