The other night I started what is, in my world, an epic cleaning project. I live in a one-bedroom apartment that is neither large nor small, and though it suits my needs just fine, I have still somehow managed to run out of room. Of course, the reason is simple: as time goes by, we humans acquire and accumulate "stuff", and this stuff expands and multiplies until it fills every nook and cranny of available space (like the Ideal Gas or Delta Burke). Sufficiently unhappy with my inability to find a place to put anything new in my living space, and facing a bedroom closet reminiscent of that of Ross and Monica's Nana on Friends, I decided to go through my things and consolidate or get rid of anything not worth keeping.

I did manage to make some headway and eliminated what amounted to two trash bags worth of worthless stuff, items that should have been thrown out long ago, if not shortly after they passed through the front door: boxes from hardware purchases, bank and credit card records from several years ago, price quotes from other apartment complexes, and all of my pay stubs from my first two jobs during college. For those that were wondering, minimum wage (in Ohio) was $5.75 in 1997. If I had to guess, I'd say the price of gas was around 90 cents/gallon. Good times.

In my rummaging I came across a poem I wrote around that time that I had submitted to some poetry website. Yes, you heard me, a poem. For awhile in college I wrote poetry, mostly stream of consciousness verse revolving around generic angst, hopeless idealism, or inflated ideals of romance and the attainment of some perfect love. Which is not to say I feel any differently today, I just haven't written it down in a few years. I submitted a few times to the campus literary journal, but those snobs wouldn't know good writing if it cast open its lurid maw and seized them upon their most tender of fundaments.

In response to my poem I received a letter from the website informing me that I was one of the chosen few to have my piece selected to be printed in a bound anthology. This handsome tribute to my work could be purchased from them for a "nominal" fee and would stand as a testament to my abilities for years to come. Needless to say I didn't fall for the marketing ploy, but I kept the letter, which also contained a copy of the poem. The original was, I believe, lost in a hard drive crash a few years back. Since I stumbled across it, I thought I might as well share with the group. Here's a peek into my mind five or six years ago:

The Nature of Longing

Longing.
Palpable as the pulse of a beating heart,
deep as the soul that possesses it,
potent as the fire that first ignited it.
Among the sorrows, it is king,
feigning ignorance of the untouchable.
It mingles with joys and plays compatriot
taking the guise of an innocent aching.
In reality, it pulls the strings on which its fellows dance.
But simple observations unjustly condemn it.
True is the heart that longs for its mate
and true is the ache that colors its eyes.
Suffering so sweet, life in the bliss of remembrances.
The fire of desires its brother,
the lust of passion its mate,
the sweetness of simple honest love its mentor,
longing endures.

Not exactly Robert Frost, is it?

Incidentally, I have yet to complete my massive cleaning project known officially as the Mammoth Exodus of Surplus Stuff. It's a lot like the Big Dig in Boston: in the end it will cost several billion dollars and likely take around two decades to complete. As of right now, the excavation processes has resulted in the majority of material spilling over into the bedroom and living room areas, resulting in noticeable traffic problems, particularly along the bed-to-dresser routes.

Local residents have been advised to set out clothing ahead of time in order to avoid rush hour headaches.

Tags: Life, Poetry