Is it wrong for me to assume that a man is gay when I find out one of his favourite songs is called "It's Raining Men"? Somehow, I imagine that same man having shower karaoke, drawing his hands down his body with his chin up, the hot water splashing against his face while he sings "It's raining men, Hallelujah!"
It's raining outside as I write, but the Sun still shines. No man in sight.
With the lack of transitional phrases, I'll just plainly announce that the next paragraph will have nothing whatsoever to do with a supposedly gay man praying in the shower for the skies to rain men. It will be about me and my ridiculous habit of assigning sentimental value to just about everything I see:
Being a hoarder naturally means that I refuse to clear out even the dust that triggers my allergies because they too have sentiments attached. It's not good for me to live among the dust and must that come with the passing of time, I know that very well, but maybe, I like to look under the bed and address the dust bunnies as I would old friends. My eyes start to water, but even the hoover cannot suck them into oblivion for their bond to this world is neither tied to the floor nor the corner of the ceiling. In the middle of chasing unwanted guests out of my abode, I tell them to stay, weak as my resolution is to voluntarily let go of what has come into my possession. To have a connection to the past makes the present authentic and the future reasonable, all because that connection serves as brutal reminder of loss. Loss is feared, fear sets up boundaries, and boundaries satisfy the needs of the superego. In other words, fear is the key to self-realization. One should not underestimate the powers of horror.
Ask me how's life. I still don't have the answer. All I can manage is a truth rooted in reality that is mirrored by the reflection of an internal bluff.
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