Go ahead and accumulate, we’re not monks in monasteries, and rummage through your baggage if you must, though I am suspicious of the examined life (in our little boats we fish as if we might cope with what we catch as if the fish can’t stay there safely) as much as the unexamined (sores we pick and sores ignored become the same.) To be happy you must sit with what you have the baggage too, but lay it out brick by brick in whatever patterns come and look at it through half-closed eyes to soften the edges. From here let your art take the weight of all you’ve lived to make a shape outside of you that lives itself and of itself without the shame of hiding. Make a friend of everything that time has placed behind you so irrefutably. Happiness is this acceptance, the holding of each moment in your hands as the in and out of your breath makes you unmakes you.