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movingboxes

One of the weirdest parts about moving is that you have to take all of the little things you have accumulated over your past residence (be it six months or a year, or however long you’ve been stagnant) and put them in stupid little boxes as if they mean nothing whatsoever. And what’s even weirder than that is when you are twenty five and moving for the second time in your life after you’ve moved out of your parent’s house…but you’re close enough to those days to have them help you move again.

The thing is you go back to the house you grew up in and you do a bunch of stupid crap like laundry and drop off the old ten pound speakers your mom gave you that don’t fit into your new place, but are too nice to sell on Craigslist or give away to a friend. Then you start to wonder what actually might fit in this new little place you are moving into, and what stupid material things you have to leave behind like memories of an age you are leaving behind by moving in with your fiancee.

I probably didn’t spell that right. But the worst part of all of this is that when you are dropping off those things that don’t fit into your new place, you open the closet in your old room and you find a little box filled with a bunch of stupid old pictures you kept for no good reason whatsoever and you see yourself at thirteen, dressed in a fucking stupid Star Wars t-shirt, innocent as can be and facing the world, ready to meet the next day and the next year, totally unaware that your high school girlfriend is totally going to break up with you for no good reason whatsoever, and then marry the guy she (kinda) dropped you for and you’re a total loser.

Then you go back to your apartment and start to think about all the lost experiences and times you have ever had in your life, and you put them into boxes. And this is what is totally bizarre, because as you are putting random ass books and records into boxes, you start to put the time you stayed up late reading the official Star Trek Magazine in ninth grade with Matt Thogerson into a box, or the time you snuck into the Matrix 2 with Nathan, or hell, even when you flipped shit because you thought your neighbors would smell the weed before they heard how loud you were blasting Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Wasn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever done?

But still, the boxes fill and fill and fill and

fuckin

fill.

I think what is harder is that this move is really effectively the time that you will move into the next step…never sleeping alone again. I guess I could stay up until 4 on Netflix in my underwear and eating toaster strudel, but it would be a quick ticket back to another life. Still, I can’t be too worried.

As I was at home unloading the boxes of random shit that I don’t need anymore, I was telling my mom about Werner Herzog’s Cave of Forgotten Dreams, one of my favorite films of the year. As I told her how the discovery of the caves at Chauvet rocked the science world and dramatically impacted the way science regarded human evolution, she laughed and found a point to rebuke my disbelief, stating that this was only further proof that science doesn’t have all the answers…and we really know nothing at all, validating her belief in the hereafter.

But I was carrying my life upstairs in boxes, fully aware of an unpromised tomorrow and leftover dreams that remained unfulfilled, but still somehow existing, refuting the doubt that stared back at me from my own.

And that’s when I realized I would need more boxes.

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