On the other hand...
I sometimes picture myself as the poetic equivalent of a hoarder, surrounded by broken junk that I can't throw out because it has sentimental value, and because I fully intend to get around to fixing it someday.
And while I'm busy replacing, for the umpteenth time, the faded silk flowers on a wreath I made back in my college days, the living flowers just outside my front door are going to waste. Poetically speaking.
So there's something to be said for letting go of the familiar old past, so that one can be fully present in the dangerously unpredictable now.
No bonfire, no phoenix.
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