I had some time on my hands & decided to sort through papers. Its amazing how many letters I've started but never finished, how many notebooks remain only half full of thoughts & sketches. I found envelopes full of ticket stubs, credit receipts & tourist maps... I came across random pictures from nearly a decade ago that I barely remember taking in places I barely remember being. These things get put into piles & crammed into boxes, only to be piled up & crammed into closets. They go with me from place to place, wherever I happen to call home. They're things I suppose I feel I should keep, but honestly, I'm not particularly attached to them. So why keep them? Writings & pictures & other memorabilia are a record of life lived, people met, experiences had. They are my tangible history, a sort of "proof" that I exist. But this history seems a burden to bear in the moment. Who am I saving my "self" for? Who will hear the tales held captive in boxes & notebooks & question their validity? Images & words will only fade or burn & what then?
I fight the urge to speed the disconnect. Some day I'll shake off the weight of it all, but for now, I'm weeding through... Some things I'll treasure, some things I'll keep. The rest are destined to die in the recycle bin.