Methodically sorting papers is one thing; quickly dumping huge piles of assorted rubbish into large cardboard cartons is quite another. It seems that there's so little time left for organizing, for sifting out what is valuable from the debris of your life that has accrued over the decades. So, fling the papers, unopened envelopes and postcards into the bins and cartons. There's simply no time for reflection or nostalgia. The whole thing appears botched right now. Receipts, bank statements, past examinations, unread journal articles, a few choice quotes that seemed profound at the time..all destined for the furnace, the trash heap.
What you're looking for, you can't find. The uneasy feeling that it doesn't matter either way. Whether you bring some kind of semblance of order to the piles or not. Let it all go. And then a kind of resentment wells up in you: all of this documentation of your life! To what purpose? Is that who you really were? Nothing inward here amongst the scraps. Khayyam: drink up!
By chance you stumble across a letter from Roxana. Very sweet and innocent. A kid, after all! Who knows where anyone is or who anyone is or was. Everyone's life is shrouded in an unfathomable mystery. It won't settle. There's no clearing here.
What you're looking for, you can't find. The uneasy feeling that it doesn't matter either way. Whether you bring some kind of semblance of order to the piles or not. Let it all go. And then a kind of resentment wells up in you: all of this documentation of your life! To what purpose? Is that who you really were? Nothing inward here amongst the scraps. Khayyam: drink up!
By chance you stumble across a letter from Roxana. Very sweet and innocent. A kid, after all! Who knows where anyone is or who anyone is or was. Everyone's life is shrouded in an unfathomable mystery. It won't settle. There's no clearing here.
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