It’s time to move. Again.

You sort. You recycle, throw away, give away. You feel good to see so much go out the door. A minimalist, you will become.

But then you start packing. All the stuff you decided to keep stares at you. You’ve already sorted. You’ve already purged. And so you pack. Box after box. You wonder how so much is necessary. That yarn. That box of fabric. Another of paint. Toys. You don’t even have any children.

When you pack your shoes (the ones you kept), you feel downright guilty. And purses. Your purses fill an entire box.

So. Much. Stuff.

But this is what I need, you remind yourself.

At the same time, you feel so blessed and so foolish. It’s a mixed-up, squished-up feeling.

So. Much. Stuff.

And when you think you’re nearly there, you look around to see more. The dregs, hanging around, waiting for a box. Baskets, wall art, lamps, and vases.

So. Much. Stuff.

You see it. You nearly drown in it. But you have just enough breath to swim out into the world. You swim, because you need a new dress.

It’s a special event, you say. It’s been so long, you say.

So you search.

You come home with two dresses, shoes, a sweater and jewelry. And you wonder about need. You wonder about that compulsion to collect, to always want more.

Too much, it seems, is never enough.

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