I had a revelation recently.
I was sorting through a bunch of papers and wondering which had stuff written on them I needed to keep and use or throw away. It was a lot because I thought why do I let months and months of writing and ideas and scribbles build up until one point in September I decide to go through and tidy up. How can I expect to work through months of ideas in two weeks, because I set myself silly deadlines? No-wonder I feel so unmotivated. It becomes overwhelming. I ask how many copies of one manuscript do I need to hold on to? Really? And the phrase for that is what I do not want to let go of. It’s the same with articles I tear from magazines, books, screenshots, tabs and pins.
It’s as if I am holding on to the concept of these ideas and these inspirations but I am not letting them go. I am collecting.
A few days ago, it took me 4 and a half hours, but I changed all my passwords. It had been something on my to do list for so long and I had been putting it off. It meant I wasn’t erasing my history because I didn’t want to be signed out of certain sites. I mean, that is just lazy.
But the relief I felt once I had done it. I could finally check off that task on the to do list. Bye bitch. Now it doesn’t take up room in my head, it isn’t something I constantly think have to do that have to do that and I don’t have to worry about it.
It is the same with my clothes. I wear the same t-shirts to bed and I wear the same t-shirts during the day. I have a wardrobe, which is where I hang up the clothes I don’t wear because they don’t fit. Why am I keeping them? I like bits of the clothes. I like the colour or the image in my head of what I could look like wearing them or – I don’t know.
Why am I like this?
What sort of void is collecting filling? Is it a comfort thing? A I don’t want to have nothing so I better grab what I can?