Look at that bookshelf. There are books there that I have not opened for so long that the dust on them has incorporated right into the edges of the pages. There are books there that I have meant to read for perhaps 30 years, but have not yet gotten around to them. There are books on that shelf that the shelf probably relies on for stability, so I dare not move them.
Every two years or so I engage in an orgy of simplifying my life. I am a mild sort of person, so the orgy usually works out to filling a rather small cardboard box with some books, broken flashlights, and shrunken-sleeved shirts; then leaving the box by the front door for long enough for one or two second-thought treasures to be retrieved; then consigning the box and its remaining contents to the outer darkness.
I coordinate the FreeCycle group where I live, but often I am ashamed to list this stuff. If it has gotten through the rejection process, including the retrieval-incubation time by the door, I figure it has achieved resignation and no longer cares to be saved. To force it to start a new life with new owners almost seems cruel.
Looking at the bookshelf, I feel the ecstasy of the simplification orgy coming upon me. The backup French dictionary is on the bubble; so is the instruction manual for the camera that is no longer with us.
If only I had not thrown away the cardboard box.
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