Pensive
So I did that thing I said I would do.
I rarely discard. I hate loss. As a result my environment is sedimentary. Layers of stuff-ness gathered, settling by the downward impetus of historical gravity. Layers of a well-kept nothing-lost. Papers, cards, postcards, baffling paraphenelia I won't discard, not out of sentiment but because of an inability to recall the sentiment that inspired its retention. Imperceptible layers that insinuate themselves into my space so gradually I don't notice the metamorphosis into clutter.
But at times, in certain somberness, I find paradox: this meticulous accumulation, the gaining of things, can speak only of loss to me. Loss of time. Testament to the irretrievable minutes. At times like these, it speaks of the accumulation of water at the expense of air; the accumulation of memory at the expense of time. The only possible result is suffocation, surely.
Mostly, we live just long enough to have too much time to really appreciate it. Cruel ironies.