I've been slowly, very slowly, getting rid of my things. The most natural-feeling division is to ditch the least-pleasing third, but I want to get to a point where I jettison two of every three. Or more, someday, who knows.

My anxiety does not want to let me do this. There are a lot of what-ifs at play. The pain in my chest drowns out any messages my gut might be trying to express. But I'm committed. I imagine best-case scenarios. If you knew me and my many collections you would laugh, but I aspire to minimalism.

Joyful finding can be amputated from fearful keeping, I just know it.
Or are they bound as tightly as joy of life is to fear of death?

My fears are all connected, I'm certain.

I sent 40 rolls out to be developed. I'm always afraid for them, out of my hands, all the while knowing that if I don't get them back it will only feel like... nothing.

Is it sad that after enough repetition, strangeness can become normality? I'm used to going home and having it be the place I used to live, and how that feels. There's a precedent for the experience now where at first there was not. Maybe it's not sad, but a good, comforting thing that all alike shall pass. Both sad and good.


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