My life is filled with an abundance of errata, of things once necessary, or at least useful, but now just gatherers of dust and cobwebs. Books, I have a hundred, hardly touched, occasionally thumbed through for references, or reminders of a paragraph that seemed particularly poignant or memorable.
Shoes and boots are more than plentiful, many choices of style or material, leathers, suedes, fabrics, some lace, other casual slip-ons, a dozen just suited for formal occasions that occur at most once or twice a year, so an overabundance by any measure.
My mind often turns to paring down, expelling the unnecessary, cutting back to the vital. The eternal question being of course what is important? Who can guess what tomorrows needs might demand? Perhaps some simple tweeds, or a well-cut diner tuxedo, life can be such a mystery sometimes.
The problem is I look at these little inconsequential things, on a shelf, in a drawer, and marvel at their precious nature, as vital now as were when first I coveted.