I'm in the middle of moving house. It's a period of transition and I have mixed feelings. I'm excited to be moving on...but already I miss the place that I'm leaving. I've lived here for five years and have grown very attached to its spacious rooms and convenient location. I'll miss the little IGA down the road. The familiar winding streets that I know off by heart. The lounge room I've shared with my Xbox... and other friends. I'll always remember it for the freedom it afforded me. It was the first place I moved into after leaving home. It was my first love. We've had adventures together this house and I. There were parties, first dates, Xbox marathons and caffeinated late nights completing assignments all held within its walls. I nursed it back to health when the air conditioner was full of bees and repaired the towel rack when the fixture came loose. I feel the churning of my stomach and know deep down I'm betraying a friend. The thought of leaving my comfy nook to for someone else to stylise and rearrange sickens me.
But aside from that, what am I supposed to do with all my stuff? Where did it all come from? Only now that I’m disassembling my room do I realise how much junk I’ve accumulated. It’s like layers of paperwork and clothing have slowly built up in the way that particles of broken asteroids and other material gradually coat the Earth and increase its size. Knick knacks and thingamabobs have snuck onto my shelves and occupied my cupboards. I feel like an archaeologist sifting through it all. There’s a complete history of movies I’ve watched in a fat wad of used ticket stubs. Digging through my draws I realise I’ve become ‘that guy’ who owns a crap load of tacky t-shirts... although at what point that happened I’ve been unable to pinpoint.
I’m now standing before a mound of heavy boxes and I realise that my life has been quantified. This is the sum of my parts. These are the things I need on a daily basis, the things that occupy my time. It is what I wear, what I read, what I keep as mementos and what I use to operate out in the world. A lot of it is worthless and worn but these things are me. By taking this stuff with me, I am admitting I need these things in order to continue the life I’m accustomed to. Now’s would be a good time to edit, to reshape who I am and what I own. Time to make a fresh start. But I’ll probably just take all my baggage with me...and curse at it for being so damn heavy.
Luke
for dotdotdash
But aside from that, what am I supposed to do with all my stuff? Where did it all come from? Only now that I’m disassembling my room do I realise how much junk I’ve accumulated. It’s like layers of paperwork and clothing have slowly built up in the way that particles of broken asteroids and other material gradually coat the Earth and increase its size. Knick knacks and thingamabobs have snuck onto my shelves and occupied my cupboards. I feel like an archaeologist sifting through it all. There’s a complete history of movies I’ve watched in a fat wad of used ticket stubs. Digging through my draws I realise I’ve become ‘that guy’ who owns a crap load of tacky t-shirts... although at what point that happened I’ve been unable to pinpoint.
I’m now standing before a mound of heavy boxes and I realise that my life has been quantified. This is the sum of my parts. These are the things I need on a daily basis, the things that occupy my time. It is what I wear, what I read, what I keep as mementos and what I use to operate out in the world. A lot of it is worthless and worn but these things are me. By taking this stuff with me, I am admitting I need these things in order to continue the life I’m accustomed to. Now’s would be a good time to edit, to reshape who I am and what I own. Time to make a fresh start. But I’ll probably just take all my baggage with me...and curse at it for being so damn heavy.
Luke
for dotdotdash
image found at http://babyccinokids.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/moving-house.jpg
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