Time Machines

Packing is ridiculous.

The last two days have been spent pouring over everything in my apartment, trying to figure out what's destined for storage, luggage, trash or donation.

There were a lot casualties and I'm close to winning Battle of Purging.

The odd thing about moving is that it unearths your past and forces you to face your future, "Will I need this? Do I need this?"

In my packing, I've found all those things that were stored under the assumption that they were too valuable to throw out, but now their value has decreased and the reasons for their existence are lost. (It's sort of sad to think that an item, which had such value, somehow lost its meaning).

I've also found those amazing keepsakes, that rarely see the light of day, but when rediscovered serve as time machines.

My father is a bit of a pack rat, and the apple doesn't fall from the tree. This is compounded by the fact that I'm a military brat, and have always felt that I had to save knickknacks from all the places I've lived to prove to myself later that those people and places existed at all. And sometimes I hold on to things so that my children and grandchildren can one day pillage through my past and see all that I've done. Sorta macabre, but that's me.

In short, I have a lot of stuff.

And while purging is good, healthy and cleansing, it's especially hard for me. I've thrown out and given away a ton. But, I can't help but hold on to my little time machines.

Call me a sentimental schmuck, but that's me too.