All of my belongings are in boxes.
That's not a metaphor. Pretty much everything I own is sitting inside a box. Whether that box is actually a trailer, in the case of my furniture, or a proper box, such as the ones storing my DVD's.
This is such a strange feeling. I'm currently laying on my mattress, which is on the floor of what once was my bedroom. It will be the last thing to get loaded up tomorrow. I'm looking up at the roof, and it just seems so far away. And I don't know why, but that seems significant.
I don't like the idea of putting my stuff in boxes. It just rubs me the wrong way. It's not because I'm sad about moving, because I'm actually really excited. It's just that there's something so... plain about a box.
These are my things. I am attached to them, and they are significant. Even those things which only seem functional, like bedposts and coat-hangers. They've been packed away, like material things with no value.
I don't think I'm a hippie. Sure, I like tie-dyed shirts and the occasional marijuana (note to current and future employers: that's a joke), but I don't think the label suits me. But I like my stuff to be free. Because it's a part of me, and I'm free. So it should be too.
And so I leave tomorrow. To take my stuff packed inside boxes... somewhere? I don't even know. That's probably the hardest part for my stuff. They don't have a home yet. I'll be fine without a home, but my stuff... my stuff needs a place to roam, a place where it belongs. Like a platypus needs a stream, and an asteroid needs space.
Stuff needs a home.
