I hurt my finger. Stupidly. Not seriously. Not excessively deep, but extensive enough that I had to apply pressure to stop the blood that was flowing intensely. I pressed a piece of sterile dressing firmly to the wound, wrapped everything in a bandage, and secured it with a rubber band wrapped multiple times. It worked. So I left it to its own course and only started to remove everything the next evening. Unfortunately, I didn't foresee that the dressing would stick to the wound. It stuck tightly. Everything under the bandage dried up, and attempts to remove it resulted in blood flowing again and the sensation of cutting off a piece of flesh with a razor blade. So I gave up. I wrapped everything back up and didn't think about it for another day. On the third day, I found out that in such cases, the wound should be soaked in saline until the dressing comes off on its own. That's what I did. I mean, I started to do, because the results were unimpressive. The dressing came off, but very, very slowly. I removed it piece by piece, partly cutting with scissors, partly tearing, fiber by fiber. Only on the seventh day did I remove the last fragment. I sighed in relief, like after a harvest.

I am getting rid of this and that, Nation. Laboriously, straw by straw. Not without pain. Some things I throw away, for some I try to find other tasks. But most often I say goodbye. Not without regret. Though also not without satisfaction. Gradually, a sense of peace envelops me. Like a sunset. Or maybe like a sunrise. I almost forgot that one can be at peace.