Material Girl

I try to not put much value into material things, especially as I get older. Even sentimental value. I can't, otherwise I would need a permanent place to call home and keep all of the tidbits I've collected over the years. Perhaps that's the reason why most people want to buy a home or rent an apartment or stay in one place for a long time. So they can keep all of their things and not have to go through the agony of deeming the long-ago Christmas gifts from their mother as ready for Goodwill, or the decades-old sketch books half-full of half-complete and poorly formed penciled figures as garbage, or the well-worn and falling apart piano books that taught them how to play as no longer necessary. It's sad to go through boxes that have been stored for 6 or 7 years now, and feel only a tired numbness towards these things that once made up my environment, my life. There's a sting of guilt at disposing what were gifts, but it's the memory that counts and I cannot keep them all. I simply can't. I'd have to change my whole life plan in order to. Out of the ten or so boxes of the stuff that, 7 years ago, I thought I'd keep forever, I've retained enough to fill one large box, the majority being books and photo albums. I'm starting to think that it's a painful combination - being both a wanderer and a sentimental one. One who wants to explore as much as possible with little on her back, yet also wants to keep everything and pour over completed chapters and never let the past go. It's a life of constant tension and clashing emotions. My life is so sparse right now. Pruned right down to the bone. But I think I'm okay with that. If I wasn't, I'd be leading a different life.