(I find it difficult to throw things away. It isn’t that I’m a hoarder, more that I become strangely attached to Things based on a deep suspicion that everything has consciousness and will feel the sting of rejection. Accordingly, I have to convince myself that I’m probably wrong in order to summon up the necessary ruthlessness. This suggests that I’m either uncommonly astute or a prime example of retarded development.)
Why I should feel such necessity, however, isn’t fully clear. Sometimes I become possessed of the notion that my days in the Shire are numbered, and that I’m shortly to be moved on by fate to pastures new. Sometimes I become possessed of the notion that my days in the densest of material universes are numbered, and that I’m shortly to be moved on by one divine artifice or another to pastures old but unremembered. And sometimes I just wonder whether clearing things out is a way of revitalising the subtle energies and attracting new things to brighten up a state becoming jaded. A troupe of Chinese dancing girls with a hamper full of fried rice would fit the bill nicely.
On which note, I’m currently listening to a mantra being sung in Mandarin. Such a pretty language.