Some life stuff, thought and reflection
Jul. 27th, 2009 01:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zouzounakiSo, we began in earnest to clear out our roach-infested garage of our possible roach-infested clutter yesterday. I was surprised at what a difference just one box made (and that it was one I was concerned about because it had a lot of important stuff in it, most of which made it through). But it got me thinking. Because I told my brother and sister to throw out a fair bit of all of that cutesy little mess I used to have lining my shelves, all of the junk I'd accumulated for one reason or another: fast food cups full of pens and little favors people had given me. Unfortunately, my cup of thumb tacks which means no hanging posters for me for a little while, until I can buy some more. It was quite a collection, sighs.
When we moved out of the house, I had clutched to that stuff so desperately. After all, moving from one house to another just three years before, I had just transported all that stuff from one place to another and set up my space, you know? But it's just sat, for better or for worse, in the garage these past four years. And it's made me wonder about my waning attachment.
This can be seen as good: certainly it's practical, and my sister even told me she was proud of me for it. But on a deeper emotional level, what's happening? Should I be worried that the things that used to comfort and define my personal space hold only the fading resonance of sentimentality to me? My room still remains more or less bare, and to me that's sort of symbolized the rut I've been in; sure, it's great my mind isn't cluttered, right? But what about all of that interesting mess, the eccentric defining and decorating of personal space. Am I ready to start anew, ready to begin collecting more and different types of things, or is this the perfect external example of my own discomfort within my own skin?
Sometimes it genuinely feels like I'm moving forward, but most of the time I feel like I'm stuck, like a skipping record. My indifference to see all of that stuff go, rather than feel refreshing or cleansing or whatever, made me feel more uncertain. Made me realize it's been a long, long time since I not only felt comfortable with my surroundings, but within my own body--the worse problem.
On a side note, no one should have to suffer debilitating PMS twice in one month, for that is the very definition of suckage!
Peace, Ghani
When we moved out of the house, I had clutched to that stuff so desperately. After all, moving from one house to another just three years before, I had just transported all that stuff from one place to another and set up my space, you know? But it's just sat, for better or for worse, in the garage these past four years. And it's made me wonder about my waning attachment.
This can be seen as good: certainly it's practical, and my sister even told me she was proud of me for it. But on a deeper emotional level, what's happening? Should I be worried that the things that used to comfort and define my personal space hold only the fading resonance of sentimentality to me? My room still remains more or less bare, and to me that's sort of symbolized the rut I've been in; sure, it's great my mind isn't cluttered, right? But what about all of that interesting mess, the eccentric defining and decorating of personal space. Am I ready to start anew, ready to begin collecting more and different types of things, or is this the perfect external example of my own discomfort within my own skin?
Sometimes it genuinely feels like I'm moving forward, but most of the time I feel like I'm stuck, like a skipping record. My indifference to see all of that stuff go, rather than feel refreshing or cleansing or whatever, made me feel more uncertain. Made me realize it's been a long, long time since I not only felt comfortable with my surroundings, but within my own body--the worse problem.
On a side note, no one should have to suffer debilitating PMS twice in one month, for that is the very definition of suckage!
Peace, Ghani
