Empty

by Olivia

My bedroom is basically empty right now. No books on the bookshelves. No perfumes atop my dresser. No pictures on the walls. Except that picture of Michael that I put up for Diego. He wanted that so badly. Asked me for it over and over. It’s mine.

The room is empty. Nothing to distract me. Nothing to hold me back, to keep my heart and mind in the past instead of moving forward. I feel so light in here right now. Like a feather just resting gently, drifting easily, calmly, silently.

It’s freeing. To not be surrounded by shit.

I can’t even think of what the hell is so important that I had this space stuffed with. I have six, seven boxes packed full of stuff of mine, that uesd to fill this room. What is in those boxes? Books. Shelves. Cases of CDs. More books. I have way too many books. I need to get rid of more of them. And I’ve already donated a lot since we started packing.

Just shit. A bunch of shit that I hardly ever touch or see or much less use. I want my next room to be empty like this. Spend lots of money on a very comfortable bed. Sleep is important. Have one bookshelf with the most important books, or ones that I’m currently reading. why keep the others?

A lot of my stuff was given to me by other people and I keep it around. Emotional baggage. An intricately designed and hand-created wooden box from India given to me by my grandfather. A little box given to me by a best friend in 5th grade. Elephants knick nacks given to me by Diego, my grandmother, my sister, my mother. A picture given to me by my dad.

“Have a piece of me” everyone says. What about me?

I’m not here. I’m in my journals. I’m in my blog. I’m in the vibrations that echo from the body of my guitar. I’m in my laugh. None of this is me.

I like this bed. I like my things, they’re alright… but they aren’t me.

It’s nice to be given things. But most of it’s crap. Weighing me down. Holding me back. You’re nice, but you’re not me.

Maybe I’m just tired. But I’m being honest right now. I am pretty tired. But I’m writing what I feel. This is me.

I’m thinking about busting open all these taped up boxes tomorrow and throwing most of this shit out.

I’ve had the desire to do this, off and on, since I was a sophomore in high school. I used to blog about it. Not when I was depressed or anything. Just because it seemed right. “I’m wanting to throw away all my stuff again. Get rid of all of it.” It confused people. They were concerned. To me, it just seems right. That desire went away for a few years. Now that I’m alone in my space again, I feel it.

I feel free in this empty room. Like I can just be myself, whoever I am at any moment, not obligated to myself or anyone else to be anything.