From time to time I get antsy about my own existence and try to come up with plans for making it better, more valid; prosperous, fulfilling and extraordinary. This weekend I have decided I need some new shelves.
Ever since I moved back into this place, I have decided to minimalise my life. I don’t want loads of useless things that I will use perhaps once a year and discard in an unloved heap in some dark corner. This has served me reasonably well up until recently, at which point I started rooting around in packing boxes looking for things I’d previously shelved but not forgotten about. The result is a magnificent mess everywhere because I’ve got nowhere to put any of my new old stuff.
Wouldn’t it be great if I had a place to put other things? I think my life would be so much better if I were to go out and buy furniture, and in fact I’m going to tell myself sternly that this is precisely what I’m going to do. When I get around to it.
The real solution is quite obviously to put everything away again, but that requires far more proactive effort on my part than dreaming of minor life renovations and implementing no change whatsoever. You may point out that this is a character flaw, but I’ll politely ignore remarks like those.