While my age isn't indicating death yet (32), nothing is to say that I can't become the victim of some accident and this has made me realize I wouldn't want my family to be exposed to my clutter. Might sound morbid, but that's the way I feel :)
I participated in cleaning up after my beloved grandmother passed away about a decade ago and, having lived through wars, she had collected some rather interesting "stuff" in the right meaning of the word. It wasn't a hoarder's home by any means, but tough enough anyway. My other grandmother's Summer house was cleaned up and sold a couple of years ago, which was a pain for my family members; they had to order a huge container to take cubic meters worth of junk to the landfill. (It is rather common here in the land of the thousand lakes for people to have Summer cottages and what they do is to cart their crap from the flat/house to be "used" at the cottage. Like that ever happens...)
I used to feel that my home was my safe haven and the things I had bought or received belonged to it - I haven't quite finished this thought yet, so a bit hard to describe. Now I feel that the things are weighing me down rather than help me somehow.
This is not to say that my home is a junk yard, but my weakness has been paper. Small ideas ripped out from magazines, articles ripped out, intact magazines, postcards, "information" copied, you name it. But it all started from the books, as I one day realized that there are many which I'd never recommend to anyone (or read again myself). There was also a growing shortage of storage space for them, especially after I had fused my student room belongings to the flat (my home remained once I moved to study elsewhere). An avalanche was released.
And here I am, tackling project after project, no matter how insignificant they first may seem - they all add up. Thank you, everyone, for keeping the flame alive!
