A Cleansing.

And so it begins…

The month of changes.

I’m moving out of our little one bedroom, which I have called home for the past 2 years, and saying goodbye to my roomie/live-in bestfriend who I believe is my sister born in another womb. She is leaving me to get married to an amazing person who shares the same name as a city in Texas, so I’ll have to let this one slide….marriage though, ironically is the “homewrecker” from where I stand. ;)

Riding the bus home a couple of weeks back, I realized how much has changed in the past year, and how much is going to in the coming year… and I have decided and not without a stab of resentment, that change, is not a friend.

Closet Life:

I started sorting through my closet, which has turned into what some may call “a hoard” or “abyss”… it’s my love of the written word that has driven me to these lengths….

I still have a little note that was left on my car over 5 years ago, that was from my friend, who left it one Summer afternoon on a whim, just because she was thinking of me. Those notes, are the one's worth keeping.

As I was throwing away paper upon paper, instead of feeling that attachment I usually do to a ripped out notebook pages reading things like “hey, we’re out of toilet paper, do you wanna pick some up after work or should I?” or “I don’t feel well, act like a cat”.....I felt a sense of liberation, or wanting to release myself from between those crushing mountains of paper, and so I went through everything with a sense of urgency (I’ve even found pieces of paper with grocery lists that were perhaps for a small event/milestone in my life and I’ve kept it for posterity… )

Afterwards, I stepped back to admire my handywork, whilst avoiding tripping over 3 bags of old magazines, notebooks full of terrible handwriting, manuals, lolly wrappers and the likes… and found myself thinking “why is the closet still so full?”… I’ve got a long way to go.

I think I inherited my love for pieces of paper from my dad... who would routinely ask my mother "where was that little piece of paper I had" which for certainty had an important phone number, a name... AKA something he shouldn't lose on it.... mum for some reason always knew where it was.

I feel like Stephane did in The Science of Sleep when he said:

"I am collecting beautiful objects. A pair of shoes. Some glasses. Telephone. Typewriter. They are made from wood and felt. With apparent stitches. Their delicate and finished appearance is friendly. And they are quiet."

Except the beautiful objects I am collecting. are words.