The other day I overheard an old guy talking to his friend: He stood in the middle of his beautifully curated home — one he’d built with his wife over forty years — and all he could see was stuff. Just... objects. Things that once held joy, meaning, history...suddenly feeling totally unfamiliar. Like he was standing in the wreckage of a life that someone else had lived. He pictured his children, sorting it all into piles — keep, sell, trash. His wife, his memories, his very existence — reduced to categories.
This really got to me even though I've still got somewhat 20 years to go before "retirement" However...looking at my life, the piles have already formed...and they're growing every day.
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