I spent yesterday filling rubbish bags with paperwork and novels that have occupied this earth longer than I have myself. I’ve found exams, which were sat the year I was born and meticulously gathered, and adapted folders of notes, which are completely obsolete. I couldn’t help but allow my mind to drift towards the philosophical as I discarded it all with minimal prejudice.
It really made me think: do we spend our lives accumulating a bank of resources that only reaches completion when it is being thrown in a recycling heap?
I’ve written before about the need to write and the significance of this desire to my life and writing. However, the more I think about it – when I’m not writing – the more I believe that it is almost like a psychosis or (more correctly) the cure for one.
Scribblings and Broken Glass 
