"Not everything that's broken, is meant to be fixed."

Today's doodle from my noodle... seems to be a repeating motif for me. 

I've been pondering the accumulation of things. 

When I first arrived here, all I had was a suitcase of clothes, a laptop, a passport and a folder of documents. Oh, I had possessions--books, art, tools, photo albums, letters, all the usual detritus of modern, privileged life--but I had left them all behind in my parents' apartment.

When I became a home owner... ah, that's when it began. I still didn't really have much in the way of furniture but when it came time to move, a van was required. Not just one load, but about 10 loads (I think). I suppose, that corresponds for every year I had lived in that house*.

I've since moved twice more and each time, the number of things have lessened. And I quite like that. I've come to the realisation that the fewer things I own, the better. You see, I am one of those who just can't seem to take care of things. Buttons that come off, tend to stay off. And almost anything that gets broken tends to stay broken+. And when you consider that my bedroom floor disappears regularly, and there is hardly anywhere to put down a mug without having to move something else, it would seem a sensible conclusion to come to.

Now, is there a correlation between my inability to maintain things, with maintaining relationships? I would argue that people are not things, and therefore there is none. But there is a small part of me arguing otherwise. And that part has small, extremely sharp teeth.

I've... removed quite a lot of stuff in the last six months. Many of those were gifts. I know some would say that getting rid of gifts is not the done thing. But why? They are just things -- not the people who gave them, not even representations of. In most cases, the giver probably won't even remember giving them. By throwing their gifts away, I'm not throwing them away. To me, the value of our relationship is not measured in material things, cannot be measured that way. I acknowledge that things can hold sentimental value - that they can remind us of the people we treasure, can become a symbol of someone dear, can be triggers for fond memories. But I think we only need one or two such emblems, not a box room full of them. Eventually, all they become are dust catchers.

I take comfort in the fact that an indoor plant that an ex-colleague had given me on his last day two years ago is still thriving on my desk. So a living thing is surviving my ministrations. A symbol that I can take care of things.

*Well, there were two of us, and it's debatable whether half of those loads were mine. I am inclined, now that we've split, to say that maybe a third, if that, did actually belong to me.
+Unless a kind-hearted friend takes pity on me.