I’m sitting by a fire. I had some remaining wood, and the fireplace was empty, so why not?
The vehicle is packed with what I can take, and I’ll set out in the morning. Around me is the wreckage of my entire life. Strewn about. Cast off. I took a bunch of things to Goodwill, but there is still quite a bit left. And I just don’t have the strength to do anything about it. I feel bad leaving the place for others to cleanup, but I’m out of time. And I’m just so tired. I’m leaving at the end of my lease, but I am definitely not giving the notice that they want. I won’t likely be getting my security deposit back in any case.
Every time that I’ve moved in the past I’ve had to toss some things. That’s just moving. But in doing so, you whittle down and concentrate the things you DO keep. Yes, you still accumulate some junk, but most of it kinda means something to you. It’s not QUITE “just stuff”. There are touchstones among the collection. I’ve tried over this last week to essentialize a lifetime of collected achievements. I’ve kept some items that I don’t strictly “need” because they aren’t very replaceable, things that maybe I tried really hard to find in the past or that I saved and saved for. But even by THAT standard, I am abandoning so very much. — I’m also TAKING too much. It’s just too much in the vehicle. I think the first night I try to sleep in there will show me more of what I must discard. I think bits will be shed along the way in the first few days.
There’s not much left of me. I’m days late. I wanted to be on the way by now. I know I should have some kind of goal as I leave tomorrow, —you’re supposed to have a plan to make it out of this— but all I have is a direction, some things I want to see again, and ideas about being All Done somewhere in the distance.
Everything is wrong. It’s all trauma. It all hurts. I feel like the last guy in a movie who claws his way out of the rubble but knows he’s dying. He just wants to feel the wind, see the sun one last time. He falls to his knees, smiles, and dies.