It's a mystery. Mind blowing The storage room is worth more than what you keep inside that hole that, in the end, what is it? The word says it. A space to put in, sometimes stuff, old stuff. What you have left over Don't be fooled. What you don't throw away because you don't see it with heart, knowing that you don't even need a fistful anymore. All those scams that you prefer to bury under lock and key and in the shadows to forget that you too give in, too often, to thunderous purchases. And you keep nonsense. absurd things That attachment to material and consumerism are still subjects you have not passed.
The robust mountain bike for which nowadays you will no longer find quiet roads or much less spare parts. Those skis that, alas! since they were the first!, it makes you feel bad to throw them in the trash. The Roomba, what a bluff. That piece of Persian carpet, covered in stains (don't believe the trick of hot water with ammonia and least of all scrubbing with vinegar) and the thousands of mites that already lived with your grandmother. The custom-made surfboard you couldn't stand upright on even two decades ago. The wedding dress. The guitar with the ruined strings that you wouldn't know how to change on your own. The set of flowery silver cutlery and all those plates that are so heavy and old, made of beautiful painted ceramics, it's too lazy to bring to the table.
Yes. This is all storage. And the storage rooms are that. Places where one day you suddenly decide to cram in your Diogenes moment to give him more space in your life. And forget about it. Forget that you have no value to liquidate what you no longer need.
The magic is broken, however, when the neighbor downstairs, who is expecting a twin, asks you for the double-seater Bugaboo that, oh! Wow, you'd swear you threw that away.
So you, who neither live in a movie mansion nor in a blonde Melrose Place-style community where space for the absurd is already given as standard, are forced to go to your storage room polygon Yes, it's very cool, bright and polished. Much better than those from Auctions a lo loco. But it is in the fifth forca. You take the car. You cross the busy city. You get angry when along the way you discover offers from nearby storage rooms. And finally you arrive, angry as an onion because you didn't take the opportunity to bring that suitcase without wheels that you haggled like crazy for in Bali a thousand years ago.
Enter the entry code below. The one in the middle elevator. The one in the floor above you (how big that is!) and when you finally stand in front of the door of your happy storage room, as accessible and wide as the others, there, in the bowels of the corner of the tangles of hundreds of people like you who don't even know how to say no when it's time or throw what's left in the trash, you sink into your most genuine day of fury.
Do you pay 25 euros a month per square meter for this little corner of nothing? 100 monthly for 4 meters? Is this hole worth more than your house? No sign of the Bugaboo, of course. It is a pity.
But the recent sight of so much accumulated truth has given you wings to go down to the office and terminate the contract today. Let them do what they want with your junk. Like they want to auction them off. You will win.
Congratulations! You have just expelled Diogenes from your life.
