Wow. That's my first thought on walking into my room, now strewn with opened boxes, clothing, and various piles of various man-made materials: to keep. storage. to get rid of. the maybe pile.
Today packing was even more dramatic, because after living for four months out of two suitcases, I'm overwhelmed at the sheer amount of stuff I own (my suitcases, by the way, were reclaimed with rejoicing at Huntsville airport at approximately 11 a.m. today). The closet holds a never-ending stream of boxes which spill their contents without apology all over my floor. In fact, I'm unpacking boxes from when we moved to Alabama before my ninth grade year of high school - and chucking most of their contents.
Yes, I've gotten ruthless. I don't need so many knicknacks. I don't need so many little papers to remember the past. I'm quite ready to move on, in fact. So I'm chucking them, without a second thought.
The thing I found that threw me the most? Apparently I kept a picture a friend drew for me way back in eighth grade. A small, approximately 3"x3" colored pencil drawing with an 18-word message written lightly on the back in all-caps. I kept, actually, quite a few artifacts from my eighth grade year. I suppose it was a memorable one.
Jenn, you'll laugh at this - I kept a piece of paper with our little ditty about Isaiah Paine and Nicole (to the tune of We Three Kings. . . remember?). I kept a little ceramic cow milk pitcher (which is, in fact, quite ugly). And I even have Cow-ee-pooh still.
There ought to be a moral to this story, I am aware. But there isn't, really, except that I'm slimming down my life a little. Probably not as much as I should, considering the small size of my dorm room this summer and my apartment next year, but slimming down nonetheless.
I've moved a total of five times in this calendar year. That's kind of a lot. No wonder I hate packing.
Last time I moved up to school it was horribly depressing, because I knew that all but one or two of my friends were gone, and no one was waiting for me. This year, even though I'm moving up in the summer, I hope it's better.
Yes, I've gotten more sleep, but no, it's not helped my fractured way of telling a story. I'm afraid that's going to take a lot more time to recover.