For hours now, I've been looking at this pile of things crowding half the bed and the floor of the new room. Three years I spent in that other room, and even after a regular annual purging, I have unwittingly hoarded more than I have thrown out. Like a squirrel hiding its acorns, I have filled all imaginable nooks with items I don't currently need, but might, one day, use.
Now this new move has shed light to how far my hoarding has taken me: old receipts; unread magazines; cases of long gone cds; cheap, broken shades. Among these junk are old treasures that have lost their luster -- unfinished journals of writing that shouldn't see the light of day, stacks of letters from forgotten friends, mementos of travels from years past. The years have dulled their importance and their significance, but looking at them now fills me with a quiet nostalgia from those dark years of innocence.
Do I cling to this unfamiliar past, or do I move on?
