I'm Becoming a Trash Fetishist

I used to not have a trash bin in my room. My mom used to tell me I didn't need it: “When you make trash walk to the kitchen and dump it there.” Only now that I have a trash bin do I know what the lack of it causes: a reluctance to perceive things as useless, as Trash. A little piece of paper, a watermelon seed, a piece of tape, push them to the corner, sweep it under the rug. Dust stops being dirty, it is natural, it is dead skin after all, and I am also dead skin. That's what happens when you ignore some unsavoury basic need, no trash container means the trash has to be dissipated around the room, rather than concentrated on the one spot. Sadhguru knew this when he spoke that the trash bin was essential. Imagine, if you wish to get visceral, the human body without the body's trashcan – the rectum. My current condition is almost the opposite. Trash, because of its easy disposability faciliated by the bin is perceived by me as strongly offensive, something to be disposed as soon as possible. I'm even to the point where, a bit ridiculous, if I finish a toothpaste container, I carry it from the bathroom to my private bin rather than the kitchen's. It's not that it's closer, which it is, it's that I get a weird feeling of pleasure from disposal, like I want to compulsively fill another trash bag just to replace it. It feels good anyway, I like to think the former binless and now binful existences aren't mere quirk of mine but contain an element of my life at large in it. Useless stuff not only weeded out but having their uselessness exposed.