I used to keep all my Pokémon “bulk,” as it’s called. These are all the cards you get out of packs that aren’t worth anything. If you have a lot of them, maybe you can trade them for a few bucks. But, like, a lot a lot. 20,000 cards for $50 dollars, if you’re lucky. It’s basically worth as much as actual paper.
As thrifty as I try to be, I realized this is not worth my time. It’s not worth managing the bulk. It’s not worth all the space it takes up in our flat. And it’s definitely not worth the money. I tried giving it away before, but even that was a hassle. So, eventually, I started throwing it all away.
At first, I felt a bit sad not being able to direct these cards to better ends. But each next time a stack of them goes into the bin, I feel a little better about it. The relief is almost visceral. One more thing dead and gone—but also one less thing to worry about.
Maybe you’ve experienced this before. The joy of letting go. But if I told you you’re cheering on destruction on a regular basis, you’d probably disagree. “What, me? No way! I’m a maker. Creator. I want to build things, not tear them down.” That’s most of us, and it’s the right aspiration—and yet, every time we look at the stars, we get more proof that destruction, too, can be beautiful.
Stars are hot, burning balls of gas. They accumulate as much energy as they can, incinerating every piece of matter they can pull into their orbit. It’s all fusion and heat and fire and atoms until, one day, the star runs out of steam and dies. The glimmer we see in the sky at night? That’s one spark of that fire that happened years ago. A snapshot of destruction carried to us over millennia, and when we finally see it, we think: “Wow! That’s so pretty!”
Destruction shouldn’t be the default, but it has its place. Cut your losses when they’re due. A fire burns wood to flicker, but it’s still an invitation to dance.
