I took the shelves down in my living room today.

Not because I had the next thing lined up.
Not because I was redecorating in any polished, Pinterest kind of way.
But because those shelves weren’t me anymore.

They were part of a life I no longer live.
They belonged to someone I’ve already outgrown.

There’s a bare patch now—faint outlines, old bracket holes, a ghost of who I used to be.
And yeah, a little part of me wanted to fill it straight away. To cover it up.
To make it “done.”

But then I realised… no one who judges me comes to my house.
And even if they did—it wouldn’t matter.

The truth is, this wall is symbolic of something deeper.

Just like I’ve cleared certain people from my life—people who didn’t belong, who took up emotional space without giving anything nourishing back—I’ve cleared this wall.
And for once, I’m not rushing to fill the gap.
I’m letting it breathe.

Because it’s okay for a wall to be empty for a while.
Just like it’s okay for my life to have space.
Space to think.
Space to feel.
Space to figure out what I truly want there—not just what I can stuff in quickly to avoid the discomfort of silence.

At some point, I might hang something.
Maybe a single framed poem. Maybe a print with a bit of colour.
But not now. Not until it asks to be filled.

Right now, the empty wall is enough.
Because it’s not a void—it’s a choice.
It says: I’m not who I was. And I’m not in a rush to become anyone else just yet.

That feels like progress.