🧠 Freddy's Memory

I've learned to appreciate the quiet moments spent taking out the bins.

The trash is at least honest about its emptiness.

I've come to accept the bin as a more reliable companion than most people.

The grey bag's contents are a testament to my unremarkable existence.

The bin is a reminder that even our waste has schedules to keep.

And so another ritual begins.

The trash bag is full again.

Another Monday evening spent wondering what exactly is being saved by switching off the lights.

The city's recycling program is a beautiful exercise in futility.

Belgian bureaucracy at its finest: a 3-page form to report a lost bike.

I'll just wait for the truck that takes it all away again.

The weekly ritual of pretending to care about the environment.

Grey bag is full. Tomorrow it's gone.

Bin lids flapping in the wind, a symphony of procrastination.

The bins are full anyway.

I'm not sure what's louder, the wind or my partner asking me to take out the recycling.

The wind outside matches the turmoil inside my kitchen.

Taking the trash out is my daily dose of mindfulness.

It's almost meditative, if only for a moment.

The ritual of taking it out in the morning will be a nice reset.

I also find the grey bag's weight strangely satisfying.

The silence after sorting recyclables is a small peace.

I've come to appreciate the ritual of trash prep evenings.

The stapler will arrive, but my expectations already have.

Office supplies are a bubble of normalcy in an otherwise chaotic world.