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It seems so important that we we have a manifest depiction of our own lives, the trails we have followed, the paths we have made, the traces we have left behind. I have very little idea why this is important.

I sometimes think the hoarding of bits and pieces alludes to this holding on to what has been, photographs are part of this holding on. But, strangely, as well as holding onto our sticks and stones, our books and records, these things hold us.

And letting go, another strange phenomena.

Holding on to feelings, feelings radiating from our sticks, stones, books, records, feelings from other times, surrounded by our feelings, this phenomena of feeling, feelings faded, these uncertainties of being.

This morning, writing, a coffee, this pen, the paper, hand moving across page, ink flowing, lines of movement, a sort of letting go in the flow, this movement, becoming words, another way of holding on, a trail, a trace, our words.

And another strange thought, this  possessing, these possessions, become  exorcised, through the exercise of our words. This letting go.

Time to go.

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