I'm not entirely sure what it is about this that so unnerves me, but I have an idea. I think what bothers me so much is not that I have a room stacked high with boxes of stuff, but the thought that all of the material things in my life can be packed away into neat little cubes and be stacked in a corner to be dealt with later, or stored away in some dark closet, only to be remembered when I have something else that needs to go there and I realize that I've run out of space. If all the material things I use to represent myself or to facilitate easier living can be packed away like that, what prevents me from figuratively packing away all the immaterial things that make me who I am?
Can emotions be ignored like a box of old books?
Can memories be packed away as easily as the teddy bears, photographs, and wrinkled old journal pages which carry them?
Sure, things can be packed away and transported place to place easily enough, but when you move, how much of you gets left behind?
I know, I know, I sound particularly angsty tonight. It's just one of those days when I feel overly contemplative for no particular reason. I had to get the thoughts bouncing around inside my head out somehow.
Sincerely,
I should unpack so those blasted boxes will go away
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