I jolted awake at 3:30am, my mind a buzzing with dreams. A nagging headache warned that sleep wouldn’t return. So, I got up and started my day with simple rituals.
Did my headache provoke the dreams, or did they ignite the pain? Maybe they’re cosmic dance partners.
These dreams unfolded in a surreal corporate world echoing one of my old corporate companies where I’d worked at for over a decade. A vast office labyrinth filled with relics from my past : computers, surround sound systems, digital printers, and bookshelves overflowing with old and new treasures. I clocked hours there, but not truly working. Some thought I’d quit; others thought I was a contractor. I remember being there so many times. Always returning. Trapped without purpose. Now, for the first time I craved a clean break.
In one vivid scene, a figure of authority bought my gear for an outrageous sum. They craved appearing fair, sidestepping guilt over using my cherished possessions. As I sifted through books, magazines and notebooks, I hunted for hidden gems I wasn’t ready to to surrender.
There had to be something of value amongst all of this.
This bizarre office has haunted my dreams for years. The more I wake, the more I recall that suffocating sensation. With each visit, the building swells, morphs- becoming unrecognizable, familiarity fades like whispers in the wind.
Upon waking, I feel a pull to simplify my existence. It’s as if something precious slips away, or I’ve forgotten a vital puzzle piece. Mostly, I dread leaving chaos in my wake and misplacing what truly matters.
On the surface, the dream points me toward decluttering. But beneath it lies something richer: the weight of inheritance, memory, and legacy.
Recently, I downsized from excessively spending on storage units scattered across my past cities to one unit and a truckload returned home. Each item is both burden and tether. Without them, does the past lose meaning? My parents lived in this same tension. Their home became a museum of memory, each object tied to its own story. Ultimately, most of it couldn’t be saved.
And here I stand, caught between two truths: knowing that clutter drags me down, yet fearing that letting go erases what matters. It’s not the shelves or the printers I fear losing – it’s the hidden gems, the writing and ideas that might languish in boxes until lost or forgotten.
If I don’t breath life into them – books, essays, something vibrant – then they risk dissolving into the same clutter I aim to escape. Perhaps that’s why I woke knowing my time is short.
Not just in the morbid sense, but in the urgent way : the maze of the past is closing in. The task now isn’t just to clean – it’s to curate, to crystallize, to leave clarity instead of chaos.
Time is short. But the work, if I embrace it, can be timeless.
Development Geek 