I’m restless when it comes to packing. I’m not moving out for another two weeks, but I can’t help myself. I need to pack. Because once I start packing I find a bunch of things that I don’t need anymore and can get rid of and then re-organize boxes. Pack. Unpack. Organize. Pack. That’s pretty much how it goes. And I love packing. Because it’s organizing all my crap into beautiful white, neat boxes that stack perfectly together and form geometric patterns against my wall. Even just typing about it gets me all revved up to get to it. But the sooner I start, the sooner I’m done and am left with nothing but emptiness and a wall full of boxes.
I hate packing for that reason. When the days wind up to the end and everything is bare. My personality is ripped from the walls. And I feel empty, even lost at times. Anxious. So I’ll pack a little bit each day to satisfy my joy and suppress my fears.