Filing And Its Discontents

Life is all about filing things. I've realized that's pretty much all I do, in my job, and at home. File the budget paperwork in the purchases folder. File the newsletters in the envelopes. File the groceries in the fridge. File the clean socks in the sock drawer. File the guinea pig poops in the trash. On my tombstone, it will read "She worked against entropy, a lot."

Entropy always wins in the end though. And while it gives me some measure of satisfaction to clean and organize things, I feel like these aren't really worthy activities I should be spending my time on. So what if the floor needs sweeping? I should be reading great works of literature (and writing same), improving myself instead of making these incremental gains in household orderliness that will only be lost over the course of the coming week. I often clean as a method of procrastination, because it's easier than self-improvement. But I ought to break myself of that - and at the same time, of the nagging desire to clean when I see something that should be cleaned. So what if the trash is overflowing? I ought to be able to ignore it and do more important things, instead of filing it down the trash chute. Someday, I'll regret that I spent time keeping things orderly instead of wildly, exuberantly, living.