Things I cannot seem to throw out: Old papers, essays, stories, boxes, and boxes of papers... Letters from people I no longer am in touch with, photos of exes, dozens of newspaper story clippings that I feel like I am reading for the first time, as some I have no recollection of having ever written, an odd note from an elderly, mentally ill neighbor scrawled on an envelope that was slipped under my door, plaques from running races, President's Club trophies, old birthday cards, thank you cards, get well cards, business cards, concert tickets, parking tickets, plane tickets, event programs, invitations, you name it and I have probably saved it.
Am I a hoarder? Is there any point in holding onto these things?
A few things have made it into my discard box, and then, invariably an hour later I fish them back out, and put into a keeper box. My sentimentality is crippling the moving process. A lot of this stuff I haven't looked at in many years, and I wonder how often I will look at it in the future.
Hmmm.... A New Life.... the headline on a story I wrote, but don't recall writing... I was talking about a junkyard. At the moment I sort of feel like I am entrenched in another sort of junkyard, that of my past.
It's a scary place. Some things make me smile, others are making me cringe. I am looking forward to putting the boxes on a high shelf somewhere in my new place, and not looking at them for another five, or ten years. Junkyards from the past are scary places. And, like actual junkyards as most city officials know, they don't disappear easily, either.
And the rest of your hoarded stuff is at my house.
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