Detritus
Within the last ten years, I have moved five times. Each time, I shed away a little bit of my belongings, the remnants of someone who was there but no longer around, and in place accumulated more pieces. College notes and syllabi gave way to legal contracts. Scrappy cooking equipment gave way to better pan and pots. Things I dutifully toted around because my mom thought it would be useful when I left town slowly handed down to people who could utilize them better.
Little by little, my living space transformed, filled with things I have chosen to keep and acquire. I'm chiseling away an existence, a curated image of social mobility. While for the most part I would consider the decluttering a positive, I also can't help noticing that I'm always a little bit too keen to find reason to replace the items I brought with me since I was 18, as if I want to mentally distance myself from those years. To be fair, they really are old enough to attend middle school by now, though not completely falling apart.
If it's not obvious enough, I grew up with difficulty to justify replacing anything until they're really truly unusable. I kept my shoes until they literally broke down into pieces (had to walk barefooted to the nearest stall). I wear my shirt until they have more holes than a Swiss cheese—even then I feel guilty not turning them into rags for use in the kitchen or something. If it is still usable (with long stretch of imagination for the definition of "usable") surely I should keep them and finish using them. It's often very unpleasant that my mind would relish the day things finally break down so I could finally have something proper.
It's unhealthy, but the eagerness to replace everything is also unhealthy.
Sometimes, I get so rattled at perceived waste that I would offer to take things off my friends, only to find out later that the items I salvaged from fate as dumpster dwellers are either not to my liking or completely useless with me.
Everyday living already brings with it a pile of things I can't quite get how to deal with. Freebies from events, wedding keepsakes, things you can technically use but are of dubious quality. My little brain goblin loath to waste anything, but at the same time I see no reason to use these sad convention pens/notepads while I have better ones. I also don't need yet another trinket emblazoned with initials of the wedding couples, no matter how good friends they are to me personally (thankfully people get better at choosing practical wedding favors these days).
Then there's a life you have moved past. A drawer I've yet to tackle is full of watercolor postcards I used to collect because a) I like watercolors and b) they were the cheapest items in creative conventions. I bought them just because I went all the way there, it seemed sad if I came home with nothing (they really were lovely pictures). My friends would always worry about me even when I said I was happy just looking around. I've always wanted to put them up on a wall somewhere, but my landlords would frown at pasting or hanging anything on the wall. At one point, in one of the many moves, some of them were bent at the corners, and I found myself in profound sadness because I couldn't find it in me to care. I have an album, I could just stow them away properly for the day I have my own place (ha ha?) but it feels like such a huge undertaking. There weren't all that many honestly, perhaps two dozens, just emotionally overwrought.
Some would be easier to keep if I do scrap journaling. Ticket stubs, concert booklets, event stickers, ... I'm just too lazy to cut and paste things. I enjoy writing, I like drawing, I have dabbled in half dozen other creative endeavors, but scrapbooking has never been my idea of fun. Feels fussy. Maybe I'll think differently when the other option is to throw everything out.
Then the boxes. So many boxes. I really don't need to keep the packaging for my Switch, my Kindle, my phone, my old phone, ... I don't do enough craft, I don't send anything out other than some cards every now and then, I don't move all that much anymore (I'd prefer to stay unless the landlord kicks me out again). Why am I holding onto these boxes even. I could just keep 2-3 boxes of reasonable sizes and throw everything else out. A DIY-er would be able to fashion pen cases or something out of these. Just like scrapbooking, that person is not me.
I'm not out of storage space, honestly. I just like making sure having everything in their place, making sure I have space for things I truly want to be here. Song of Departures from Like a Dragon Gaiden: Pirate Yakuza in Hawaii has this great line:
To the me I've yet to meet
It's perhaps my way of burning the world, just like how my friend would erase everything she has done on the internet whenever she feels like it. I offer everything to the cleaner whenever I could (and if the items in question are of decent condition) so hopefully they really do get some second life out there.
And yet,
I can't help but feeling that maybe, just maybe, what I am truly looking for is a completely new beginning.