Piles of them, made neat, but every day blocking the rest of my life.
It's their cardboard colour that gets to me. Suicidal Brown. Premier Brown.
The colour and the contents - books, half sorted and remuddled when they were packed, together with an occasional postcard from my dad or piece od sculpture.
Decisions, decisions. What do I keep? Do I need more bookshelves? Will I ever get round to reading that? Will secondhand buy these? How will I get them there?
Some of you may remember I was sorting books back in December, January, long before I moved? I offered you, free, my undergraduate philosophy texts... They are still with me, with no space to put them , one of many reproachs that there are careers and interests in my lifr I will never now follow...
I'm getting absurdly sad (the long forgotten dedication in the flyleaf of a book of poetry "My everlasting love, Sue" Three years before our divorce.)
The hopes and fears of all the years...
I have spent so much of the last year sorting my past. passing judgment of every aspect of it as I endlessly unpack. Last year? I can barely remember a time when I wasn't doing it.
But life isn't endless. I long to live.
Yet Ihow can I start until I've unpacked the last cardboard box.
