This last weekend, I helped two friends pack and move. The moves themselves were fine and a nice way to spend time with them. The only sad thing was saying goodbye to one friend who went off to Texas.
People shouldn’t move until I am ready for them to leave. Which will be never. I’d love to have all my friends, en masse, move to Kabul with me. We can all live in the same block and traipse around, saving the world and building little lives in the mountains.
They are all stubborn mules and won’t.
I’m sighing now.
At one point during the move, I stood up and was surrounded by brown boxes. That’s when I felt the slow panic creep in to my toes. How many boxes will I need?
Briefly, this was my train of thought: How the hell am I going to get my stuff to Afghanistan? And what if I have to become a refugee again? Don’t be so materialistic, just move with some clothes. Pack light. No, I want my stuff. I want my jewelry and books and more books. I need some comfort there. Why are you moving if you need so much stuff to make you happy?
I think I’m going to lose my mind.