“If I ever want to look at it again, I can just pull out the photo.” As I’m downsizing to where I don’t have to funnel so much of my money into renting space for objects I’m not attached to, I have to be careful. What objects could not be replaced with a photo? Not many. Most can be easily repurchased, rebuilt, or recreated from memory. What if I easily make copies of those objects?
This box represents that attachment.
I got this, and another one, in my childhood from some store or another – filled it with the smaller items I used to collect like rocks, spoons, miniature animals, odds, sods – until I moved them elsewhere. I believe I donated the other one with an alternating dog and cat iconography.
[Edit: I did and wrote “Minimal Memory Objects” about it.]
My mind ran through all potentialities for this box. It might be a cute thing that Trishna might own in “The Story.” It could be useful for storing tools, if my dream office “Zeal” has a mini-workshop in one corner. It could serve as a memento of my childhood – which is a dangerous proposition, and – of the three, the only one worth exploring.
I only have some attachment to this box.
I used its now-probably donated brother to store the aforementionables. This was dormant. I like the design and aesthetic. How much do I really want it? I am writing this essay miles away from it, so I can only consider it as a memory.
What if I donated it?
Would I look at this photo with any lingering sadness, wishing I had kept it? If anything, those feelings would be reserved for the other box, which went to a thrift store without much hesitation.
This box represents a turning out.
I want to live a life with some degree of transient detachment. Part of that requires me to consider wisely what I hold onto. This morning, my thoughts were mad over events from yesterday’s work, and those angers clouded feelings of nostalgia, pleasure, euphoria, relaxation, empathy, until I realized that through this essay. As I considered whether I’d keep this somewhat precious object, itself just a plain old thing magnified by peculiarities of perception, I realized that this is just an analogy.
Do I want to keep these work thoughts?
This work is fulfilling but it’s not “mine.”
My work is this. My work is sorting through my life on a public stage so that when I am streamlined, I can write my fiction with a fervor uninterrupted by liars, cheaters, thieves until I can address them properly. My mind ran through retorts this morning. We all want to fight fire with fire. You can’t do that if you have so many combustibles on you that you could ignite.
That’s where downsizing comes in.
If I can remove inadequate attachments, I can secure treasured attachments, so I don’t act anxiously for attachments.
Instead, my mind can freely act.
|Quotes:  IDKFA.|
|Sources: My personal experiences.|
|Inspirations: Donating another box of things. The jacket underneath the box looks nice enough but its pleather exterior is not something I enjoyed wearing, and if I ever wanted a fly jacket, like I had when I was a kid, I could buy a better quality one. I ended up keeping the box because I thought I could use it for LEGOs and for the aforementioned story ideas, but now it’s just been sitting out in my dining room, so I might donate it. When I get back into writing fiction, externalizing my ideas for “The Story,” and taking photos of LEGO minifigs, I doubt I’ll use this box for storage.|
|Related: Other Downsizing Zeal essays.|
|Photo: Arranged for aesthetics.|
|Written On: September 15th [25 minutes, 5:00am to 5:25am, mobile]|
|Last Edited: September 18th [Besides a more extensive spellchecker, the biggest difference between the first draft and this, the second draft, is that I scrolled through months of photos because I vaguely remembered the other box. Turns out that essay from fourth months so thoroughly disappated my thoughts that I forgot about it.]|