lost in the warehouse

I tried to pack... really I did. But it is hardly a fascinating task, especially when the bulk of what I own... my prized book collection... I won't be able to take with me right away. My books are such little things, but when piled together they weigh so much. I don't even want to go through the pain of prioritizing my books... I am not even talking about my books that I have in my room... just the ones that are still in the boxes in the "warehouse". They have sat there safe and sound... for over a year... because there was no room on my pitiful bookshelves. It is really tragic.

I tried to pack for almost an hour... I am sure that there are a few boxes sitting in the garage that I need to sift through... but they contain all the boring kitchen stuff that will also not accompany me on the first part of my journey. I am reliving the steps of my father... the young Italian immigrant who lived for a year in Canada out of a cardboard suitcase, except I have two non-descript Samsonite suitcases of 200-dernier polyester. The airline will only allow me 50 lbs for each bag... so I will leave home with just over 100 lbs of clothes, a few textbooks, and my essential technological equipment.

Packing is time consuming. I sat on the floor in the warehouse and went through the contents of each box. Some had been partially emptied, as over the course of the previous year I had removed some of the contents to fill the empty spaces in my downstairs dungeon. One box holds a blue plastic bag with a pile of letters and notes from my youth. My past, all wrapped up in blue plastic. I keep it as proof of the ridiculousness of my follies, the broken hearts that I caused without effort, and the kind and insightful words bestowed on me by precious few. It was a lonely year... it's been a lonely few weeks. But sorting through my blue plastic past reminded me that I was not alone in the warehouse... I was just lost.