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Clouds of dust and little piles of paper
My bedroom is in a state; it reflects my previous life in an ironic way. Everything piled up, never truly sorted out, little bundles of paper and mess hiding issues that I've been too lazy to tackle. Little and Often is such a good maxim to live by, yet I cannot be that proactive. I found the glow in the dark stars that belong on my ceiling; they were living in the back of a drawer, denied the light that makes them light up my night sky. It sucks living in a place where there is so much cloud, and when the skies do clear, then the light pollution obscures all but the brightest stars. I can only just make out Orion and The Big Dipper on a normal night, other constellations like Cassiopea are never visible.
Mental Note: Get back to Greece, climb the hill again and see the Milky Way.
Being ruthless, throwing away floppy disks and old receipts feels like I'm shedding a skin, a snake sloughing off the old layers to emerge glistening and new. I don't feel like a butterfly; the change is not that drastic. I am not changing completely, just moving onto better things, feelings that are new are pushing away the old phobias and anxieties. Throwing away this is like my agoraphobia falling away, discarding that is like my negative body image withering and dropping off... Finding books under piles of bills and paper is like rediscovering an old photograph and remembering the happy times from long ago. I have so many books, some still unread like the line of classics gathering dust, some overread, like Lord of the Rings and Snow Crash. The bedroom slowly but surely gets to a state where things are in order, where I can see the floor again, where the clothes are in the dirty linen basket again. It looks like a new room, just my bed as the point of reference telling me I am still at home. I cannot even begin to imagine how different the room will feel once she is here; another presence in my little space. Strange that such a small house can feel empty, but it feels so right that she will complete my small home.
Question to Self: What began first, the tidying, or the introspection?
The rambling white rose at the back of the garden has somehow put another couple of dirty white flowers onto my trellis; I should pick them, or at least go and appreciate what nature has given me today. The Jasmine has lost it's vivid yellow, the leaves are fading and beginning to fall on the alpines below. At least the saxifrage is still green, but it seems to be able to handle anything.
Like my roses, I am rambling... Laters, peeps...