I had a plan once.
I had many plans.
I had books of plans.
The plans were neat, tidy, and went from point A to point Z with no stops at B or L or M. Not necessary. I had a plan.
Those books were some of the few possessions that made the cut when I moved from Oregon to California. The trunk where the books currently live is in need of refinishing, the books need a new home, and I’m looking for matches.
The books are full of plans that didn’t happen. The books are sad. The books show a depressive personality growing daily since middle school. They are full of dreams that were very very different than what I’m living now. The books are dark. The pages in these books are warped by time and tears and pain. The books are ugly.
I want to throw away the books.
I want to shred the books.
Actually: I want to burn the books.
I don’t want to burn the books because my dreams didn’t come true. I don’t want to burn the books because it erases the feelings. I don’t want to burn the books because it will change my life. Ultimately I want the space, don’t want to lug them from home to home to home anymore, and since I never plan on sharing these with anyone, I can burn them.
Not every word in the books is worth burning; I’ll skim and save when I need to, but those books are going… right into the round and flaming file.
I think I’m done making plans until dinnertime. Then I’ll burn both.