I'm spending the day cleaning out my old apartment. It hasn't been easy. I've had to be supremely detached and cold. So far there are 7 bags of garbage, and the job is only half done.
It's just stuff, I keep repeating to myself.
The first piece of 'adult' furniture I purchased, so proudly, in 1997? Gone.
Those bedside tables that I refinished? Garbage.
Birthday cards from up to 10 years ago? Bye.
A thousand memories, all sorted through and divided into two piles: the stuff I am permanently letting go, and the stuff I will bag tightly and put into storage. And all this sorting and leaving things behind feels really familiar to me, not in the good way, but in the numb mechanical way in which allowed me to survive this before.
It's just stuff. It's just stuff. It's just stuff.