Emotions around decluttering

I haven’t protected myself from something that has the power to consume me.

Clutter.

More than physical. It’s mental, it’s emotional, it’s spiritual.

Clutter. Clouding my space, my mind and my intuition.

Paper clutter.

Stuff clutter.

People clutter.

Word clutter.

Financial clutter.

Too much and so much that I can’t think clearly.

I exist in a constant state of anxiety because I can’t hear, see, feel what is true.

Or maybe I can…

Maybe I cling to the clutter, because it’s a excuse not to listen. #realtalk It’s an excuse to keep certain people in my life. It’s an excuse to not make the decision I know I should make. It’s an excuse not to do the easy/tough work of trusting myself above all others. It’s a excuse to settle. To play small.

…Fucking clutter.

I want to blame it. As if “it” is a thing beyond my control. But I created this monster. I am its master.

I allowed the papers to pile up.

I allowed the stuff to accumulate.

I allowed those people admittance into my universe.

I allowed the noise versus choosing the music (or blissful silence).

I allowed the spending.

I created this entity, day by day, month by month, then year by year.

And now I want to dismantle it all.

Set it on fire, drop the mic, ride out and don’t return until it’s all ashes.

Declutter with Viking brutality and deathly finality.

Declutter unapologetically and blissfully.

Declutter to remove these hidden weights and burdens.

Declutter so I have room to breathe, stretch, fly and soar.

Declutter so I have no excuse.

Declutter to hear and listen to my inner voice.

De-fucking-clutter.

And yet, a part of me is irrationally afraid to declutter in the way I’m feeling draw to do.

“What if I need that thing later?”

“What if I hurt her feelings?”

“What if I regret it?”

What if, what if, what if…

Reasons, excuses, bullshit.

Just get it done. What’s on the other side, has to be better than this.

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