cleaning with a therapist

I don’t like to enter the abysmal yet funny place of forgotten memories I once worked for with enthusiasm akin to a little kid. It reminds me of an old storeroom in the back of an enormous house filled with cobwebs of the spiders which have haunted it for the past four years, or perhaps five. Time is an abstract concept and in my brain it is as vague as the coin at the bottom of a well. These days perhaps the coin is not as foggy if we consider the state of the ground water level and the dried out wells.
Sometimes, when I venture inside it, albeit accidently, I make up my mind to clean every nook and cranny. But the acute bout of motivation works on the all or none principle and the innate need of going through each and every box with utmost precision is the death of this very motivation as well. Nonetheless, I try organising it every other week with the help of a professional of course. The euphoria of finally having everything in place only persists for a moment or so when I realise that I haven’t even pierced the surface. So like a good old worshipper of lethargy and procrastination, I run away from this tedious chore, putting it off for tomorrow which will never really come but the mere thought of a future is comforting for a while.

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