Let the purge begin

Scarlet has revived. She's focused internally this time. An argument about recycling oatmeal cans has started a purge storm in me, and I've just built a fire-- it's still cold out despite being weeks into spring. To my left is a box marked "Jillaine Journals". Haven't opened it yet, so don't know which years are in there. My plan is to skim them, capture what, if anything, I want from these collections of self-absorbed bullshit from my youth, then throw them into the fire. Even the family historian in me can't get upset about this (although I recall how appalled I was when I was still keeping journals to learn of anyone who would burn theirs). I have no descendants, and I seriously doubt that my nieces and nephews give a damn about what I wrote as a young (and then not-so-young) person. Would I want to have access to the journals of some distant ancestor? Probably. Most likely. But I can't stomach keeping all this crap around me. It weighs me down. I want to be free...