Am, at present, packing into cardboard boxes the collected detritus of memories, the flotsam washed in on the waves from a lifetime of experience.
Do I need it all .. that is the question. What to keep, what to dump. What book, what piece of paper, what diary, what letters from lovers long ago, what picture in a frame. Furniture and fripperies, small statues holding within them the spur for memories of special events and people.
For how much are we held in bondage to the past, I wonder.
It would, I guess, be somewhat easier if I had a definite destination in mind, or even if it was intentional - something to look forward to with eager anticipation .. but, sitting among the piles of disorganisation and packing paper, depression keeps seeping in through the cracks of a badly built self esteem.
Sometimes solitude is its own reward, to not be pestered or distracted by family and friends - but to have to do this on my own, a singular body in the vast universe...
It is an ancient Mariner,
(and why am I sitting here this morning, wasting time writing this sort of crap?)
And he stoppeth one of three.
`By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?
The bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
Mayst hear the merry din.'
He holds him with his skinny hand,
"There was a ship," quoth he.
`Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'
Eftsoons his hand dropped he.
(well, I didn't write THAT, Samuel Taylor Coleridge did .. )