I've just moved out.
To be closer to work. To be farther from some things. To facilitate some things, to exacerbate some others.
So, I have an apartment of my own...and a life and a person to figure out.
Once there were two men, both aged about 30. Both had had decent lives, were working professionals in good careers, and were by and large ok with their lot in life. They didn't know each other, or even pass each other on the street or in a restroom. However, their circumstances were more or less comparable. In fact, they were almost alike except in one aspect - moving.
One day, each had to move house. One guy took 3 days and 25 cartons to pack up all his stuff. He had to take the Friday off, ran around all weekend, finally got everything settled. He'd been living there for so long...things tend to accumulate. There was always some reason or the other to not throw stuff away. Surely this piece of rope or that torn plastic bag would come in handy
sometime. And he couldn't throw away all those theatre ticket stubs, those restaurant bills, the cards and letters, could he? They were a record of his life here, a chronicle of who he was and the people, places and things that made him him. Of
course it was worth storing all these odds and ends. Something to look at and smile about in his old age or on quiet Wednesday nights.
When the other guy had to move, it took him half a day and 6 cartons exactly. He had the rest of the weekend to just move and relax. Although he'd been here seven years, it was surprising how little "stuff" he had piled up. All he really needed, he thought, were the books and the CDs. These were the only things which could not be replaced. Collected over so much time, and with so much care. He knew exactly where and when and with whom he had bought which book and which CD. He remembered the time each CD had been listened to the first time, and which time was the most enjoyable. He remembered who returned books aggravatingly dog-eared, and who had an uncanny tendency to spill wine or coffee on rare first editions. Who was too absent minded to remember where the borrowed CDs were and who didn't care because they were the kind who thought what's the fuss all about? You can buy another one, can't you?
No, because the memories associated with that which you ruined are what make me me.The first guy spent another 2 weeks setting up his new home. He put everything up exactly where he wanted it. He made sure he had designated spaces for everything. Everyday, he came home tired but he knew he had to put all the stuff away, because there was
so much of it. The only way was to keep at it. No sense in waiting because he knew well enough that at some point he would want something, and bluster through the whole lot searching for it and make a royal mess. And there was just no point in that. So he kept unpacking and it tired him. But he always felt a glow when he looked at the shelves and cupboards full of his things.
Him. This was him now.
The second guy took 3 hours putting up the books, the clothes, the CDs, the computer, the CD player. He had sold off the other stuff, given some to friends, left some on the street, thrown some away. The furniture, the big appliances, the little stuff were all just that - little stuff. Peripheral noise. And there was enough noise and clutter in life already. A man just doesn't
need so many things. These can always be replaced wherever, whenever. Why carry all this baggage? If it's important enough, he would remember it, he didn't need to keep all sorts of small junk to remind him of good times. Change is constant, movement is constant. It's he who can move quickest who knows what's
really important.
One day, the two guys met.
^
