I think I need a vacation. I wish I had some tiny house hidden away in verdant hills, something somewhat difficult to get to, something where you’d worry about getting in our out before the weather changed. Someplace with dappled sunlight near a river – close enough to be heard but just too far to be seen – and something nestled near mountains where a short walk can become a climb. I think I miss my grandfather’s doublewide trailer on Mount Nittany, or maybe I miss that strange cabin in the woods my dad took us too a couple of times – the one that had a huge stereo system but no record player simply to show off that you couldn’t pick anything up on the radio there.
I want to be out of touch.
And I want to throw everything away. It’d be better to sell it, but I don’t have the time or inclination. I just want everything to vanish. It’d be nice if it replenished the coffers, sure, but there are so many things, impulsively purchased, that adorn corners of my rooms that are of no use. I’d certainly be richer if I’d never owned them but I’d be none the poorer to lose them.
I’m tired of so much stuff.
Business cards and old medication. Books and audio cables and old merchandise and broken toys. The three guitars I never play to make room for the three guitars I always play. The games I wish I could still play. Piles of clothes too awful to give away but too sentimental to toss, files and folders and old magazines. How did I become this person? It used to all just fit in the car.
I know that’d not true, but it’s not TOO false.
I think I need a vacation.
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