I have a secret jealousy of people whose things all have a dedicated place, even the telephone and internet cords. Everything is neat and perfect, and there is never even any dust. I keep thinking that someday I'll morph into that person if only I can find a "dedicated space" for this pile of business cards I recently accumulated, for example.
But it's complicated. I'm staring at the business cards now, that great grand pile of "things that are potentially important," and there doesn't seem to be an immediate solution. The probability is high I will never look at that pile again. But what if one day I need a name in there? I'll hate that I cast it aside like so much junk mail.
I can extend the time frame of how long I can contemplate this quagmire by taking little pieces of paper to the trashcan, one scrap at a time, which is technically still productive.
(Also, I am Spotlighting things on my computer to stick in the bin. I love emptying the Mac bin.)
On days like this there's a vague memory that replays in my mind. It is so resonant that it's managed to survive in my recollectable archives, but so old that I realised today I can think about it without knowing I'm thinking about it. It has lived with me too long, like a dull ache you forget to be unhappy about.
(Also, I am Spotlighting things on my computer to stick in the bin. I love emptying the Mac bin.)
On days like this there's a vague memory that replays in my mind. It is so resonant that it's managed to survive in my recollectable archives, but so old that I realised today I can think about it without knowing I'm thinking about it. It has lived with me too long, like a dull ache you forget to be unhappy about.
