What is it about stuff? About possessions? About having objects? I really don't understand.
As I am digging deeply into my boxes of aforementioned stuff, there are many moments of the pleasure of viewing, say, some of my vintage linens. I am glad I have them. But what do I think they say about me? Why do I need so many of them? I understand why I have lots of books and (lots and lots) of CDs although I plan to spend some time examining that, too.
I am dismayed by the accumulation and yet I am not ready to part with it, dispose of it. But I feel I need to.
Still working through Proust. That likely adds to some convoluted thinking. I think it his writing is amazing, but his analysis of Swann's mind and heart is daunting in the complicated detail.
I liked this:
"How often we sacrifice the fulfillment of a possible happiness to our impatience for an immediate pleasure."
Nearly always? A corollary to the "road to hell is paved with good intentions."
That was a bit of an aside. There is something brewing and stewing in me. I am not depressed or particularly down. Maybe this is the midlife crisis my cousin Dan thinks I am having ... the change of life. Well, yeah. I hope so. I need to change my life. I am working to change my life.
I feel that I am ransacking myself to find some thought or memory that will make all of this, my (and I do mean) so-called life. I am going through my belongings and my penchants for possessions to ... what? Free myself? Understand myself?
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Perhaps it is a crossroad to the next half of your life. I have been thinking about burning my journals lately. I don't feel like that person anymore -- are you really the same person you were 30 years ago, 20, 10? Lightening your load, lightens your load -- sell it, give it away -- you will give someone else a gift and you will have a wonderful memory to share with them.
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