I am cleaning my desk. Stacks have sat stagnant here for a long time. Things that were important, things that needed to be taken care of have become lost opportunities. I waited too long.

I am throwing away memories. It is one thing I am very good at. I throw away three letters from an old friend who used to be very important to me. The most important at the time. I throw her away.

There are other memories on my desk. Pictures of me with a blue face, with a tired face, standing next to a happy face. A face I once made happy for a few weeks.

Pictures are the vestiges of my thrown away memories. I have many of them. Not enough to visually document my life, but enough for a general overview; enough to jog the body into an emotional reaction.

And when I throw away the pictures, I throw away the memories essentially for good. I might remember them offhand someday. Like when my parents talk about, “When Matthew was a kid…” I can vaguely recall an image of what they are talking about, but it is not the same as remembering.

I figure that if I am not living that period of my life, why do I need to remember it? Memories. Junk.

My house is cluttered with objects that represent memories. A bunch of junk for the most part. And yet I lug it with me from place to place. I used to be able to fit all my memories into a backpack. For the most part I had mobile memories.

Now I am married. My wife with her memories, I with mine. We live in a house filled with our memories.


Some of it is still valuable, but most of it will someday end up like the letters, or the picture of a blue-faced me.

In a black, plastic trash bag with convenient yellow handles.

Dacw 'nghariad. Time to stop.