It was a long nap. I guess I was tired.
I am slowly waking to the momentum which has carried me in its wave like a deep cradle of forward comfort.
The deep house thump and guitar of “Imprints of Pleasure” by Tube and Berger are wobbling my walls as I formulate an attack plan, “keep, leave, throw, burn” as I look at or touch or point out and then mentally check off books, drawers, boxes, blankets, window coverings, clothes, and then follow through with garbage bag, box, side glance, or burn pile.
The list is massive but manageable. Conquerable.
Within days all I have done here will be memory. No one but I will ever recall it and over time the memory will fade. It will become colored by experience and perception and intention until even I will not know the truth of it.
Memory is like that. It so often hides truth in its recalling but so seldom is the truth. It is simply our recollection of past experiences colored by present experiences.
I imagine I will look back to this time with some wonder; how did I do it? How did this happen?
I know those answers. That is to say, I know today’s answers.
Tomorrow it may look just a little different.
Keep. Leave. Throw. Burn.
Very much like packing.