A pile of papers had slowly been growing on my windowsill. Festering there since who knows when, it included everything from field trip forms to math work scrawled on scrap paper—a byproduct of my delusions that “I’ll clean it someday.” In spring, that someday finally came.
I’ve never had the heart to throw things away. Every scrap of paper came with an excuse: “I might need this” or “It could be useful later.” Through these little justifications, I built a nest of clutter—progress reports, pay stubs, birthday cards, all feeding into a living, breathing paper creature, with a mind of its own, growing with each new flyer, assignment, and poster I tossed its way.
Eventually, I stopped noticing it. The pile became just another fixture in my room. We had accepted each other’s existence and stayed out of each other’s way. Without me noticing, it just kept growing. As I became more indifferent, it thrived on my neglect, my sleep deprivation, and my apathy.
This year brought a whirlwind of changes—some joyful, some not so much. Somewhere in the middle of the endless storm, I started learning how to let things go, and in a brief moment of clarity, I finally decided to confront the beast on my windowsill.
It started small: envelopes stuffed with forgotten forms, then job training paperwork. Each item I recycled had once felt important. They were things I swore I’d reference again or reminisce over one day. Among them were essays and homework from freshman year, sticky notes from Model UN, and careless doodles on the backs of worksheets. Each piece had once meant something. And now, I was letting it go.
If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be tossing all this out, I would’ve called you a liar. But there I was, feeding the recycling bin one memory at a time. There are so many things we think we can’t part with, until we do. They sit quietly in the corners of our lives, weighing us down more than we realize. I had convinced myself that I needed the paper monster, only to learn that I was better without it.
Now, my windowsill is clear. I’m ready to start fresh. The fall of the paper monster means I finally have space to grow. Maybe it’s time to face the paper piles in your life, the things you’re convinced you can’t live without. If I can fight my demons, you can fight yours, too. They say old habits die hard, but they won’t even go in that direction if you don’t try to face them. Clear your windowsill. Make your own space to grow.
Be First to Comment