Should.
That fucking word. I swear to Christ.
It haunts us with things left undone. With potential. An endless stream of what-ifs, could-haves, and maybes that meld into a theatrical chorus of “You are not good enough as you are”.
I’m not talking about positive self-improvement. I’m talking about those twisted voices whose only purpose is to torment. We all have them.
“The Shoulds”.
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If you come across an item you’re not sure about while you’re in the process of decluttering there is a three-question system you use:
I’ve been doing this for a while, so most things need two or more yeses to stay.
This year what struck me as I started cleaning out my ever-dwindling cabinets is that they are not full of “things” anymore. They are full of the people I used to be, or people I wish I was.
Me and songs. Specifically, MY songs. If I can call them that. They feel very alive to me. I am the gateway that brings them into the world, but after that they are their own beings. They grow, develop and have small, beautiful, precious moments that only I get to be a part of. They say things I would never expect. They take me places I would never have chosen to go. They make choices that make me cringe and infuriate me.
