You get stuff, like, as much as you can. Sometimes you buy cheaper stuff so you can get more of it, to fill every house room up. You find a place for each kind of thing you have one of.
If it exists, you want it, to touch at least, and then there’s stuff you can’t afford, and you hatch plans to pay for it. It’s a dream you have to own like every fucking thing you ever thought of.
And soon you have so much stuff, most of it boxed, labelled for the next house, one after that, and an inbuilt space inside of it specifically for this set of plates, that knife, cushion covers and cardboard cut-outs of Johnny Depp as a pirate (his natural state, don’t you think?)
And people will ask, “What is it?” and you’ll not even know. You’ll say, “It cost everything and I had to get it,” or, “It was a steal, I couldn’t not.”
And knowledge is this. Exactly this. You’ll never wipe the stuff completely, shift, you wish you could unsee, unlearn, depreciate it like possessions from car boots or Poundland, Harrods or eBay, Gumtree.
Knowledge has got a ghost pain, and even the memory’s you don’t have of things which Jack assures you did happen in 2002 and 4, linger between synapses, like silt in a drain, built up so solidly gradual you don’t notice the glug, glug, glug.