As The Pile Grows (Extremes)
You hoard. Your things are gas, expanding to fill every available space. You say you might need something from your junkpile, something that might make you money with your writing. It’s in there, somewhere, among decades of strata. You just have to find it.
As the pile grows, you talk of renting office space, a place to store more of your leavings. And you will leave a great mound to the world, for them to clean up. I know this, you did it once before, when you moved away.
I am purging everything: paper, books (some yours), people (you in there). My cupboards are getting quite bare. They’ll call me Old Father Hubbard, if they think of it, if they see what I’ve done.
I get a brief sense of relief, of catharsis, when I wing-fling things away, out my door, out of my life, something for future archeologists to piece back together, if they find it, think it worthy.
I don’t want to be weighed down by things, in case I have to move-though you never let that stop you.
I am wondering what I’ll have, to look fondly over, when I’m older. I start to daydream of digging through your things, all those layers, those story-worlds of ghosts, the company I’d have. O the sweet remembering, just the thought of it, thoughts from a poor man, over your riches.