Moving toward empty

This place is getting that funny echo, the echo of empty. And with all the boxes piled up a march from one room to another that used to take seconds is a minutes long hopscotch and sidle around boxes and deconstructed furniture. There is but one untouched island left in this whole place. My writing desk.

Here I sit, wondering how in hell I'm going to pack that there lamp. The pull chord on the blinders bats in the wind. I keep turning my head... was that a mouse? no, silly.

The more I look around & pack up the more I realize that I had absolutely no intention of leaving this place. I got furniture and bought all the stuff for all the right spots and just figured it would stay right there. This was a cozy spot in a good location at the right price. Mine all mine. I think it was after I got the fancy new dresser and nice bookshelves that the mice started showing up.

And now? This stuff may fit into the new rental. But my dresser might only look good in the kitchen. My bookshelves may frame the new living room like an unsightly mistake. Crown moulding and Ikea? That could be a bad taste in the mouth. And this time I'm not so willing to go shopping and make it all work.

Ok, that's a lie.

And goofy things go through my head. Don't forget that bell. Where did my Garuda statuette go? Dang, shower curtains. Why do I have all this product in my bathroom?

Daily I bequeath upon the clientele of the alley some crazy, barely used item. A printer. A Microwave. A coffee maker. Some makeup, shampoo and a mirror (oh and a conditioner that, it turns out, is really only good for African hair). It disappears, off into someone else's home to be part of someone else's life. If they're savvy, on Saturday there will be a rug out there for the taking along with a halogen lamp that, while it functions, is wobbly on its feet. What else? what else? Onward toward empty.