I’ve been working for a couple of hours tossing out crap. And “crap” is what it is. I assign importance to a brown glass jar that B&M Baked Beans come in. It has now a place of Honour on the ledge above the kitchen sink, beside the Los Palmalito Guava Jelly jar labelled with a colorful but completely worthless plastic ” shrink wrap” label. I suppose if I put all of my “valuable” cans, jars and bottles in a water tight box and buried that box in the back yard or stuffed it in a corner of the attic, my son could decide what to do with this crap after I died.
The quarantine has imprisoned me with my frustrations, sexual, intellectual, physical. The “gaoler” is my conception of myself, what I can or cannot be or do. So I hold onto stuff to think I can make something out of them and hence make something out of me.
Crazy? Not really, if “completing” with it, i.e. tossing it out, helps clear away the rubbish the keeps me dissatisfied and unhappy.
Enough pop psychology and psychobabble.