Let's just burn it all down and start over. There are bits and pieces of my life all over the floor, so that I can hardly walk. Each piece is a bitter memory or a blinding flash of joy.
Literally.
A half dozen pairs of shoes strewn in a path from the door to my bed. A dozen books, half read - half realized, stacked on the window sill. A snowfall of white paper - bills, reciepts, articles, ticket stubs - covers every flat surface. We won't even mention the laundry, or the empty tea cups.
Each piece of flotsam that washes up sticks for a time, most stays. And after years of telling myself it's time to let go, I think I've reached a breaking point. I am twenty-nine years old, and only now feeling a bit like an adult. The nest is getting crowded.
Or is it a fort? A book fort, a blanket fort, a hide-under-the-furniture-with-your-favorite-bear-and-snacks fort. A safe place to hide.
There's a phrase now, for those who feel death's edge and decide not to wait to let go of things. Casser maison. Breaking home. Taking apart the physical things that have constituted your everyday life, in anticipation of a (final) transition.
I feel like doing that now. I'm not going to wait for death (though, as Emily might say, he may kindly wait for me). I want BIG things. I want adventure.
And as in the fairy tales, first you must walk out the garden gate.
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