i grew up surrounded by clutter.
desktop, phone, storage full. stacks and stacks of ticket stubs, airplane tickets, name tags, flat pennies, crumpled post-its, followers i don't know.
each time i move out, i spend a great deal of time clearing away everything i don't need.
i hold on to the clutter because it's comfortable. afraid that if i let go i won't be the same. like a safety net reminding me of the past.
i subscribe to keep the clutter. $2.99 each month digitally, $50 physically. then i give in and throw it all away.
i wonder if i should be keeping it. if maybe one day i'll miss it.
time passes and i don't miss the clutter. so i keep less and less of it.
i spent a long time last semester digging through the school archives. printed email threads, scanned notes, handwritten letters, ticket stubs. each holding a part of the untold story. without them, no traces left.
i wonder if i've been erasing the traces of myself by being afraid of keeping my clutter.
i wonder how many people have been erased through their clutter. how many people edited out of the story, out of history, with traces of their clutter no where to be found.