I, PRIESTESS (15)
Garage clearance.
It seems my abode rests on sound foundations, so I'm burning my journals: melancholy meditations. Thirty years of musing (for the most part bemusing). I've borrowed a brazier.
It's repetition that makes the diaries familiar; thirty years of reinterating thoughts all too similar.
Time to grow up and move on.
Four trips to the tip: I got lost the first time, but I threw away things that were and weren't mine. (The hoover was heaving from swallowing dust - and spiders and snails, cobwebs, paper-rust).
Now. . . .
De-cluttering a place mostly leaves me elated but, this time, I felt quite defeated, deflated.
To throw things away is a sort of life-edit. (Keep what served you well and still does you credit.)
But you cannot ignore the alternative version: the irrational and messy illogical person (in boxes and plastic bags).
I'm so pleased that person's now gone.
