emptying boxes from a move is emotionally taxing.  each box is its own time capsule.  each box contains too many memories in the form of objects.  for each object you remove from a box, you have to evaluate its importance to you.  you also inadvertently go through a mental chronology of where the object came from, how you used it, how people before you used it, and what it's future value might be.  then you have to find a spot for it to go.  a new home.  you have to look around your space, your new home.  you then have to evaluate your home, and the patterns of use yet to be established.  you might get frustrated because you have nowhere for your object to go.  you're overcrowded.  you may not even understand why you have the object, why you've kept it so long, or why you bothered to move it two-hundred and thirty some odd miles.  maybe then you put it in a new box, designated for donation, recycling, or trash.  or you put it in the store, to sell.  or maybe you just move it a little to the side, and try a different object.  it is an unending prospect, these boxes made of cardboard and plastic, these boxes filled with fragile things wrapped in newspaper, filled with precious tiny pieces of things, filled with beachcombed flotsam, filled to the brim, every last corner filled, filled, filled.  filled to the brink of emtiness, the brink of dizziness, to the brink of a breaking point.  so you go outside, you go for a walk, and breathe in the space around you.  you decide to wait, and empty the boxes later.  some other day, perhaps.  when you're feeling stronger.

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