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tales from an ordinary world


Sometimes I worry that I feel too much empathy for objects. I bought a new one of those cheap canvas backpacks at lunchtime, which meant I had to transfer the contents of my old bag to the new one, and throw the old one out. It's in the bin under my desk in the office right now but I can't help feeling a pang of sadness, as if this wasn't the right way for it to go. Usually (if I was at home) I'd have just put it under the desk in my bedroom with all the other old bags I no longer use, because I can't bear to throw them out. It's not some kind of "I must get maximum use out of this thing so that I feel I got my money's worth" crusade, it's merely a feeling...that it deserves better ? Like I should be giving it a proper burial, or somehow giving it another chance at life. I don't know if this the same reason why my father is or my grandfather was addicted to hoarding stuff, but I find that it's my primary reason for doing so. I have too much guilt in my life.

..end transmission...

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