In my quest to organize my real space in an effort to organize my head space, I've been clearing out drawers and closets. Slowly, to be sure. Baby steps. But little by little I'm making headway.
If asked, I would have said that I'm not a collector. Of anything. No stamps, or pincushions, or thimbles, spoons, china ... nope, not me. I have lots of books, but I'm not collecting them. Collectors worry about first editions and condition and so forth. I'm only concerned that all the pages are present and accounted for, and not stuck together. I also find myself buying lots of yarn, but that's because I intend to use it, not display it.
But for all that I don't deliberately collect anything, I do find that there are things I have an awful lot of. Containers, for instance. Cardboard, tin, ceramic, whatever, I can't seem to get rid of them. And not particularly special ones either. I mean, I'm not oohing and ahing because I have a limited edition pillbox or anything. It's just that once a box with lid comes into my environment, I can't let go of it. I'm sure I'll find the perfect use for it and if I do get rid of it, probably come to regret doing so at some point in the future. They're useful, which gives me a perfectly good excuse for saving them. If, in fact, they actually got used. Mostly they get forgotten about until I need to clean out a closet or drawer and then ...
It could be a kind of metaphor, now that I think about it. I have a need to be organized that conflicts with my inability to avoid clutter. Maybe, subconsciously, I view boxes as a compromise, being things in which I can organize and store the clutter. Except the boxes themselves have become clutter which then needs to be organized. Probably I need a box for my boxes. Oh wait, I have one. It's called a house.
Which brings me back to square one. I'm working on it.