A little less than a happy high

clayrobeson's Get the F#%k Out of Dodge party is slated for this Saturday at my place.* In preparation, I've been at cleaning again. Not just the surface-tidying meant to make the place seem livable and otherwise presentable, but a deep, gut-wrenching culling of the debris that's accumulated during the last few years. I say gut-wrenching because of what the things say about me or at least how I've been. It’s weirdly difficult to let them go.

All of these things I keep finding that I haven't been able to throw away for whatever reason make me feel a bit like Jacob Marley, doomed to wander dragging the chains that he created for himself by the way that he lived his life. His chains were forged of books and ledgers, though, which suggests that he at least had the good sense to keep his stuff in order.

I started wondering if I headed into the street and started wailing I would have some sort of catharsis. I decided against that plan, being as I'm not a ghost and would likely disturb my neighbors. Then I started thinking about Bob Marley and the Wailers. I’m still not convinced that my world is ready for dreadlocks, though, so that thought passed too. It did, however, leave a tune in my head. Could you be loved and be loved?

This wasn't the first time the Marley idea came to me recently.. The other was inspired by the bag I seem to haul with me everywhere. Since I've been walking more, I've started noticing just how heavy it is. Granted, there are things I carry that are useful, but there’s a lot I haul back and forth for no good reason. It's all so much weight. Weight for protection and deflection. It's a little like armor, but armor that’s ill-fitted and prone to blocking my vision or movement at inopportune moments.

It’s the weight of waiting.

Tired of it.


*Incidentally, if you need directions or have any questions about this, please feel free to drop me a line.