Today I (this next part could be in either th past or present tense, as it's still the middle of the day and i'm still performing this task) went through a lot of different notes and books from the past few years. In the process of cleaning out my room, I need to articulately sort through every folder notebook and scarp of paper with as much precision and efficiency as possible.
But I've realized that I do not want to get rid of most of my work. All of it is important to me, it's all close to my heart. These notes are the product of the last four years; more, even. I can't just toss it all (and even if i did, I'd have to do some big brilliant licking and slurping all encompasing all consuming fire. it'd be ceremonious and ritual and beautiful and memorable. if i can't hold on to my notes for their memories, i should at least hold on to my memory of their destruction).
...
Why is it so hard for me to throw away all this paper? It's like I live in my memories--memories that weren't so entirely happy. I mean, now, retrospectively, they're all happy. I had a pretty good childhood, and I'm going places...But i remember times then when I felt I was living life unfufilled, i was wasting away, and i was terribly unhappy and empty and melancholy...but thinking about it all now, i wasn't, it wasn't. Maybe i'm too optimistic, maybe I can make the best of a situation. Knowing who I am as a person, my strengths and my many many limitations, I feel like I've had a great 12 years of schooling, a great 18 years of life.
And I tack that happiness onto my past.
I can't let go of my past.
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