I sit here, ignoring my gutted room. Everything is lying spilled over the tops of crates, suitcases, pirate trunks, regurgitating clothes, baskets, headphones.
The only Zen thing about packing at this very moment for me is how relieved I am when I stop thinking about it. My body is so strained from it that my prayers are really pure, nothing else affects me. The packing takes it out of me, since it is this pointless, progress-less endeavor that brings me absolutely no joy, and tires me out completely.
The art of packing is to really not start thinking about how much you own. And also, to start thinking about what you really don’t need and what you can get rid of. It’s the only way to advance in this never-ending process.
I know I’ll be on the plane on January 4th regardless of how much progress I’ve made up to this point, and so this also contributes to make me feel calm amidst my anxiety. I can go to a concert and to a cemetery when I have a lot of things to do. I know things will work out.
Recurring questions: What is this? Do I really need this? How am I going to pack all this? How come I have so many clothes I’ve never worn? Is this even mine?
I like having my back turned to all those suitcases. I’ve never slept better than these past few nights, with my mind completely blank from the task.