Looking at what’s on top of my chest I saw this old address book from seven years ago. Except for its wrinkled laminated skin the thick plastic cover protecting the inside paper neatly folded accordion like, two by four paper is intact. I used to take it all the time because that is what an address book should be, a reference. Inside were a couple names and addresses, of people that I am not talking to or hear of anymore. Or addresses of people who moved out, even my old address was in there. The things I don’t need but still in my possession. It wasn’t bothering because of its size, it could stay on top of that dresser until I move out. This is how I decide and act: if it competes with my space it goes garbage, otherwise I let them stay around, and let them be. Accumulating things is part of our self preservation instinct, but if there is no self, there is nothing to preserve. To know thyself. In all of my years spent in college ‘to know thyself’ is the only thing I am still working out until now. I agree I maybe beaten and bent down, shaped by sufferings and hardships yet I might not still know myself. And because of this I supplement this lack of self knowledge on accumulating possessions. Just now I threw out the address book, old makeup, old lipstick and some small things although not bothering in terms of occupying big space, yet means a lot in unmasking my personality.