Dust in the Corners of My Mind

Okay, so… this might not be what you were expecting. I didn’t plan to write anything today. Honestly, I just opened my laptop because I couldn’t sleep, and the cat kept walking across my chest like I was the hallway. So now here we are.

I think I’ve been feeling a little disassembled lately. Not broken exactly, just… scattered. Like puzzle pieces that technically fit but don’t make a full picture anymore. You ever feel that?

I walked by that field near Wilbraham Road — the one with the half-collapsed shed and the tire swing that somehow still moves even when there’s no wind. That place. I always think someone should take a photo of it before it disappears completely. Not because it’s beautiful, but because it’s so stubbornly there. Like it refuses to admit time’s passed.

Anyway, it made me think of this article I read once about why we hold on to clutter. Physical, emotional, digital. I mean, my inbox has emails from 2012. Some from people who aren’t even alive anymore. I can’t delete them. It’s not logical. It’s just… I don’t know. What if I need them someday? What if I forget how they sounded?

Sometimes I wish we could save smells. Like bottle them. The way my childhood kitchen smelled at 5pm in November. Or that one winter jacket that always carried the scent of cold metal and old detergent. That would be better than photos, honestly. Smells don’t lie.

I’m rambling. I know. But maybe that’s okay. I think some of us were built for tangents. Not everything needs a direction. Or maybe I just say that to justify not knowing mine lately.

I was going to make tea but ended up staring at the kettle instead. It’s dented. The kind of dent that comes from one fall and then never goes away. And still it works. Still makes steam. That kind of resilience is weirdly comforting. Like, sure, I’m a little warped, but I still boil. Or whatever.

If you’re reading this — I don’t even know how you got here. I didn’t post this on purpose. Just typed until the typing felt like breathing. That’s all. There’s a weird peace in saying nothing important and letting it matter anyway.

There’s this Japanese idea — wabi-sabi. It’s about imperfect beauty. Things that are flawed, weathered, incomplete — and still worth noticing. Maybe even because of that. I like that. I think that’s kind of what Wilbraham feels like sometimes. Softly falling apart, and beautiful for it.

I’ll probably regret posting this. Or maybe I won’t. Depends on the hour.