My whole world has a sour tinge to it. The only sweet reward is that I have some good books lined up for the reading and a room that my parents avoid like the plague. They avoid it because it looks like a giant heap of junk and dust. Admittedly, that’s what most of it is: Unorganized Junk. Once it all gets figured out, it will look quite nice. First step: find my floor and keep it visible. Second step: sort out all unwanted clothing and other items to make for a handy little garage sale/good will donation.
That’s as far as I’ve allowed myself to get.
And yet, the sour tinge lingers, just like the humidity pressing in from all sides. The ceiling fan is helping, but not enough to make this room a possible place to spend a lot of time in. And yet, I loathe leaving it. There is so much that needs to be done, and so much I can accomplish in here. No one can tell me how to sort my room and how to arrange a shelf, it’s all mine. This is the room I have my freedom in.
But still, the sour flavor is there. It sits in the back of my throat like a pill that just doesn’t want to be swallowed. I can’t remember what I was trying to take, but it’s fighting to go down. The fight is a tough one, but one of us will come out on top. It’s just a matter of time.
Textbooks, Piers Anthony, German dictionaries, Russian dictionaries, Swedish-French dictionaries, Shakespeare, Dinotopia, Assimil, and pictures and boxes and awards. They all litter my shelves. Each has their own history in my life or in someone else’s life that I want to learn more about. If I let go of these books don’t I lose that connection that much more?? I always did latch onto the past and memories more than anyone else in my family. They let me feel that I was a part of something that I can’t grasp today. Those links are gone from anything tangible. I don’t know what my Farmor would say to me today if I asked her to read me bits of her journal from when she was 18. I don’t even know what the journal says (I can’t read swedish).
Which of these books will come with me to England. What notebooks? What textbooks? I know I need to bring my ones on Animal Behavior and Mammals. I want to bring my textbooks too, they’re small. I know I can use them. I want to bring so much, and yet I can’t. There just won’t be enough room and time for all of it. The chemistry, calculus, genetics and German books all need to remain. It would be too much.
This room is a treasure trove of a pack rat. I’ve always known that. I envy people that can toss out whatever they don’t need at that moment. I want to hold onto so much. I’m learning to let things go. It’s very…very hard. Change is hard. It’s like alternating a flight path that is the only one you’ve ever known. The questions of “WHY?” and “HOW CAN I?” pop up.
The sour taste is of too many questions? The acrid burn of not enough answers. The weight of too many items, and the dust that layers a lot of them.
I used to put items in the dark corners of my book case to hide them from the light. I didn’t want to find them until later. Soon I’ll have to uncover those edges and dark recesses to see what I stored in there back when I was 12 or even younger. The history will come out, and a lot of it is headed for the trash bin.
Perhaps when this is done, the sour taste will go away.