  Online nowCaile-girl- caile-girl is a woman from The Home of, Southern Fried Chicks, Georgia.
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- Member since Nov 10, 2005
Purveyor of Fine Questionable Judgment Since 1968
INFJ | Family/Friends: mom | cousin | brother | imaginary friend
My blog: [angstofthesloth] | Blog formatted for Firefox browser
For those who understand you, no explanation is necessary; for those who don't, none is possible. ~Cobain
Quoting pithy, philosophical stuff by other people makes me feel worldly and self-important. ~me
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Pieces of Me: The Exodus of Stuffage
 We bustle about boxing and tagging my life in labeled cartons.
Decisions haunt me. Should I keep this? Should I get rid of that? Will I miss these bits of my colorful past when they're gone?
I sit and watch as, bit by bit, these bubble-wrapped pieces of me are taken away. Given to family. Sold off to strangers. Donated to charity.
The accumulation of many of my life's hard-earned yet materially unimpressive visible reflections of my personality, my mind -- my soul. The tangible glue that comprised a visual collage of my personal journey through the years. Solid reminders that some things really are timeless.
Carted out the door. Out of my life.
When I'm dead, I can't take it with me. But I'm alive. Certain material items do define me; comforting, steadfast constants in an unstable world. When people let me down, my favorite ratty green blanket or my flea market teacup are always there for me.
It's not how expensive things are, it's how they make me feel.
Yes, a few items will make the journey to my new home. But the vast majority of stuffage -- the piles of "I'll use that someday" -- are departing.
"You didn't appreciate us enough, now you lose us." I feel their non-existent reproach. These inanimate objects care nothing for me, yet I feel I have somehow let them down.
The stuffage continues its march out of my space creating increasingly barren walls and floors, taking memories with each box, each item.
I'll make new memories, I console myself. I wipe back the tears as I tell myself this momentary pain will ultimately yield to a more liberated existence. But the exodus of my already-haves to their various and sundry as-yet undefined destinations is no less emotionally draining.
My life. Boxed. Labled. Compartmentalized. Unlike my brain or my thoughts.
Scattered, never to be seen again.
These pieces of me.
~caile~
2007
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