Most of what I keep in my room is very basic. I have a bed, a bedside table, a mirror, chair, etc. None of these things are very eccentric to the average observer. Most of my furniture and decorations are simple, yet elegant. I like incorporating style without knickknacks and doodads. My light fixtures are all chandeliers, but not flagrant. My curtains are white but with a hint of sheen. Another aspect important to me is coordination. My wall color is called pale silver. I have a few accent pillows and toile shades of the same blue-green hue. For the most part, I like my living space and my life for that matter, sweet but not too sweet.

There is one exception to this clean-cut approach. Aside from all this banter about living simply, I can’t take full credit. My phobia is reading material. I just can’t seem to let it go. What makes this habit of collecting papers even worse is that I feel inclined to read every last word. I’m not even necessarily interested in reading what I have. When I am, the reading goes quickly, and I can free myself of the extra paper. When I’m not enthused, the stuff gets filed away, or alternatively, takes up a permanent position as a dust buster. Stacks of magazines, books, newspaper articles surround my bed. Usually, well 99.9% of the time, I start reading and never finish. The material accumulates until I’m tripping over piles and piles of unread stuff.

Unable to find time to finish them, I eventually make one huge sweep of the room discarding, recycling of course, pounds of ink and trees. I never let go of it all. Only what I can bear to chuck. Another bad habit I have is rediscovering old things I’ve already thoroughly read. Not remembering reading them, I must once again analyze every single page, against my better judgment. So the cycle continues. Perhaps, one day, I will find myself with a few spare minutes to indulge in my latest good “reads”.