I think about this all the time: putting those boxes somewhere. I have probably a dozen boxes. They’re in my storage unit, which is the size of a broom closet. My storage unit is inside an enormous dusty square-shaped warehouse by the river. I visit my things every three or four days. I have never seen another person in the building. Inside I have two suitcases where I swap out clothes and retrieve my anti-seizure medication. Sometimes I take out my leather jacket and put it on. I stand there for a few minutes and flex my arms. When the leather bends it makes a nice sound. I take it off and put it away. Other times I take out my guitar and play a few chords or whatever. If you can miss inanimate objects, I miss a few of those things. I miss wearing them and holding them. They make me feel safe. I only have a few things like this. I sure do miss feeling safe.
There are a lot of people around me right now. I wonder if they have no money too. Some of them are dressed nicely and some of them are wearing expensive glasses. I guess that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I had my paws on a little bit of money once, which is why I still own anything nice at all. Of course I can’t get to any of it because it’s locked away in that dungeon of a warehouse, and I’d have nowhere else to put it anyway, so all I have are the clothes on my back and a bag with a few novels and teabags in it. By all accounts I am a broke homeless loser. It could be worse. I don’t have a police record and I don’t think anyone is trying to kill me. That’s got to count for something.
from a post about moving to portland last year
(i still feel the same way about all that)
whew!! glad the portland part is over with
(also: i meant “antiepileptic” medication, because that’s what you take to control the godawful ailment which is called bipoar II, and which has eaten my whole brain. whoops~)