Wow, here again so soon. It's gotta be a record.
Because I am as materialistic as I am sentimental (read: I buy tons of shit, and then can never get rid of it), it can be a bit hard for me to find things in my room, from time to time. I can't find the following:
-Transcripts (I hope I had the foresight to give them to my mom for safe keeping. Augh.)
-Snow Crash
-My leather case for my headphones.
I know my leather bag is around somewhere. Back when it was like...sorta accessible, I knew at the back of my mind that I had it. It was somewhere. I never worried about it being lost. It's here...I just don't know where it is. Snow Crash, I rememer I was about to read it, and I put it in a plastic bag so it wouldn't get dirty, I think. Then I got new books in shortly after, and I set it aside to get back to later. I'm pretty sure it's never left the house. Must. Find. All. Of. Them.
I hate moving. Haaate moving. I hate packing and worse, unpacking. Packing is the lesser evil, because you just toss the "like" shit together, while with unpacking, you consciously have to put said shit in their proper places. Augh, effort. While I do love everything that makes up the bulk of my belongings, I've always aspired to be a minimalist, if only because packing wouldn't be such a bloody chore. I would be able to pack my life in a box or two and have bloody done with it.
We're going to move again this year, for the last time.
My impossible goal is to get rid of a lot of shit that's in my room right now before then, and then pack what's left, everything else be damned. This would be lovely, if not for one obstacle.
The Basement.
The Basement realm is home to myriad things, some laid to wait until they are needed, often only to be forgotten, while others are immediately cast inside with casual indifference. Several weeks past, I ventured into the realm, in search of boots, crafted by the ever enigmatic Victoria, that seemed to have gone without my leave. The realm smiled on me, and I found them with minimal difficulty. My journey should have ended then, but curiosity stayed my ascension to the upper levels of my domicile, the return to my domain.
Time does not flow there as we know it to elsewhere. A minute will seem like sixty; ten, a hundred. Entire lives waste away in the space of a blink. The dust that blankets everything is as much a part of the Basement as the things that lived there, and is in fact all that remains of those who came before. They who came in search of refreshments and found old souvenirs. They who looked for sports equipment and found things long borrowed and never returned. They who sought in tools only to find albums bearing witness to more tender years and travesties of fashion. They were all of them here, a testament and warning to others. These were things I knew.
These were things I ignored.
There were things here that I had as much right to as my boots--they called to me in a melody that could not be silenced by bees wax, or resisted with a ship's mast and bindings.
I answered. Time passed. Seconds, hours, minutes, days--it is foolish to ask how much, it was a sacrifice willingly made and ultimately of no consequence. I was rewarded for my efforts, though for some finds, I am tempted to use "reward" dubiously. Old, old artwork was discovered. Artwork that will remain unseen by human eyes lest I should want to melt one's eyes from their head and drive them to inescapable madness. I was graced with Winnie the Pooh socks and heels, both missed and wondered after for years. The joy at finding things thought lost was undeniable, and it was at that particular moment when I found myself again and made haste to escape, lest the Basement's thrall hold me indefinitely.
Once safe in my own realm, I was able to think, contemplate. Despite my rediscovered treasures, the goal to shed myself of the unnecessary is not something any less wanted, and yet I can't help but wonder what might be lost if I were were to outright destroy or condemn everything to waste away. Should I concern myself with this? Does it truly matter? Out of sight, out of of mind as they say, and I've fared well enough without such things. Materialism and Minimalism are opposing, not as light and dark, for they may exist independently and without defining each other, but more as fire and water. To have both is not an option. So. Do I rid myself of everything old, or do I keep it still for the sake of sentiment
I'm at a crossroads, and do not know which path to take.
Clearly, I should not be allowed my laptop when I'm sick, but if you try to take it from me, I will gut you with extreme prejudice. >8/
P.S. Oh yeah, and I ordered more books. Because I need more of them despite not having any shelf space. At all. Also, life still kinda sucks.
-Transcripts (I hope I had the foresight to give them to my mom for safe keeping. Augh.)
-Snow Crash
-My leather case for my headphones.
I know my leather bag is around somewhere. Back when it was like...sorta accessible, I knew at the back of my mind that I had it. It was somewhere. I never worried about it being lost. It's here...I just don't know where it is. Snow Crash, I rememer I was about to read it, and I put it in a plastic bag so it wouldn't get dirty, I think. Then I got new books in shortly after, and I set it aside to get back to later. I'm pretty sure it's never left the house. Must. Find. All. Of. Them.
I hate moving. Haaate moving. I hate packing and worse, unpacking. Packing is the lesser evil, because you just toss the "like" shit together, while with unpacking, you consciously have to put said shit in their proper places. Augh, effort. While I do love everything that makes up the bulk of my belongings, I've always aspired to be a minimalist, if only because packing wouldn't be such a bloody chore. I would be able to pack my life in a box or two and have bloody done with it.
We're going to move again this year, for the last time.
My impossible goal is to get rid of a lot of shit that's in my room right now before then, and then pack what's left, everything else be damned. This would be lovely, if not for one obstacle.
The Basement.
The Basement realm is home to myriad things, some laid to wait until they are needed, often only to be forgotten, while others are immediately cast inside with casual indifference. Several weeks past, I ventured into the realm, in search of boots, crafted by the ever enigmatic Victoria, that seemed to have gone without my leave. The realm smiled on me, and I found them with minimal difficulty. My journey should have ended then, but curiosity stayed my ascension to the upper levels of my domicile, the return to my domain.
Time does not flow there as we know it to elsewhere. A minute will seem like sixty; ten, a hundred. Entire lives waste away in the space of a blink. The dust that blankets everything is as much a part of the Basement as the things that lived there, and is in fact all that remains of those who came before. They who came in search of refreshments and found old souvenirs. They who looked for sports equipment and found things long borrowed and never returned. They who sought in tools only to find albums bearing witness to more tender years and travesties of fashion. They were all of them here, a testament and warning to others. These were things I knew.
These were things I ignored.
There were things here that I had as much right to as my boots--they called to me in a melody that could not be silenced by bees wax, or resisted with a ship's mast and bindings.
I answered. Time passed. Seconds, hours, minutes, days--it is foolish to ask how much, it was a sacrifice willingly made and ultimately of no consequence. I was rewarded for my efforts, though for some finds, I am tempted to use "reward" dubiously. Old, old artwork was discovered. Artwork that will remain unseen by human eyes lest I should want to melt one's eyes from their head and drive them to inescapable madness. I was graced with Winnie the Pooh socks and heels, both missed and wondered after for years. The joy at finding things thought lost was undeniable, and it was at that particular moment when I found myself again and made haste to escape, lest the Basement's thrall hold me indefinitely.
Once safe in my own realm, I was able to think, contemplate. Despite my rediscovered treasures, the goal to shed myself of the unnecessary is not something any less wanted, and yet I can't help but wonder what might be lost if I were were to outright destroy or condemn everything to waste away. Should I concern myself with this? Does it truly matter? Out of sight, out of of mind as they say, and I've fared well enough without such things. Materialism and Minimalism are opposing, not as light and dark, for they may exist independently and without defining each other, but more as fire and water. To have both is not an option. So. Do I rid myself of everything old, or do I keep it still for the sake of sentiment
I'm at a crossroads, and do not know which path to take.
Clearly, I should not be allowed my laptop when I'm sick, but if you try to take it from me, I will gut you with extreme prejudice. >8/
P.S. Oh yeah, and I ordered more books. Because I need more of them despite not having any shelf space. At all. Also, life still kinda sucks.