When I thought of how I'd been living, how I'd been approaching life, it was all so trite, so miserably pointless. Unimaginative middle-class rubbish, and I wanted to gather it all up and stuff it away in some drawer. Or else light it on fire and watch it go up in smoke {though what kind of smoke it would emit I had no idea}.
The narrator reflects on their life, realizing it has been dull and lacking in creativity. They feel their existence has revolved around mundane, middle-class ideals that they now find unfulfilling. This revelation prompts a desire to discard these experiences, either by storing them away or by destroying them entirely in a symbolic act of liberation.
This contemplation leads to a deeper introspection about the nature of their experiences and the emotional weight they carry. There is a sense of frustration with the ordinary and a longing for something more meaningful, highlighting the struggle many face in finding purpose amidst the banalities of daily life.
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All the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.
Race of Cain, ascend to heaven, And cast God down upon the earth!
