There is nothing on my mind right now so strongly as my mind itself.  The thoughts and intentions – I can resell this, I can collage this, I can arrange this – that filled my imagination and my shelves with books and props and sheaves of prints now fill my heart with regret.  But the regret does nothing to break the attachment.  You know what I mean.  Regret tends to make attachment more miserable.  It’s a way of indulging yet another fantasy – that I didn’t want to do what I did, or that somehow I can still repair the past.

The funny thing is – I wish I could get rid of these things (most of them).  I really, really do.  But I keep thinking I have to try to rescue some of the money I spent on them, because if I admit that I never can, the waste will just seem almost tragic – given my current predicament.

Its a puzzle without a solution.  In fact, the solution is to stop trying.  Which is hard.  The hardest part of all.