Here are things that I’ve evidently found more important than actually packing, or doing anything about moving in 2 days.
- Googling different variations of ‘junkies in st kilda’ over and over (whenever I tell anyone I’m moving to St Kilda, they do that ‘oh, really… well I suppose it’s closer to work…’ face)
- Watching several consecutive episodes of Good Game
- Sitting on the floor, wondering whether my new bathroom will be cold in the mornings
- candy crush saga
- The facebook / twitter / instagram refresh cycle
- Looking at the dishes, and not doing anything about them
- Sitting around replaying different scenarios of how life will be like in the new house (is it a good supermarket, what if the oven cooks unevenly, what if the internet doesn’t get connected for ages, what if somebody has a key already and gets in before we have a chance to change the locks, and so on and so forth).
I don’t think we’ve got enough boxes
Ever finished a book? I mean, truly finished one? Cover to cover. Closed the spine with that slow awakening that comes with reentering consciousness?
You take a breath, deep from the bottom of your lungs and sit there. Book in both hands, your head staring down at the cover, back page or wall in front of you.
You’re grateful, thoughtful, pensive. You feel like a piece of you was just gained and lost. You’ve just experienced something deep, something intimate… Full from the experience, the connection, the richness that comes after digesting another soul.
It’s no surprise that readers are better people. Having experienced someone else’s life through abstract eyes, they’ve learned what it’s like to leave their bodies and see the world through other frames of reference. They have access to hundreds of souls, and the collected wisdom of all them.