The other day, I was in the bookstore and saw a book on tidying that I hadn’t read yet. I took it down, started to look through it, and put it back again regretfully. I had no need for it. My house is tidy. Everything has a place, and everything gets put away.

There weren’t any decluttering books I wanted, either. I’m decluttered.

Yesterday, a nonprofit truck came and took five trash bags full of once-desired objects off my front steps. It was a rush to get rid of that last donation, let me tell you. Every time I thought about it, a feeling of accomplishment flooded through me.

But now I can’t think of anything else I have to discard.

I was wondering, this morning as I woke up in my small bed in my tidy bedroom, why I felt at a loss, and it was because here I am, for the first time in a long and distracted life: an organized person, who keeps only what she needs or thinks is beautiful. What the hell am I going to do with myself if I am now the person I always wanted to be?

Something will come up. It always does. I just have to give up on finding the perfect book in the home organizing section. That’s all. There are plenty of other sections in the bookstore.