I moved to my new home finally. When you are forced to carry every single one of your possessions up and down stairs and hills and over guard rails and through doorways, you keep wondering: Where did all this junk come from? Why did I keep it?

When you store things away, because you don't really need them every day, but something compelled you to keep them, and then you go back through that old stuff, two or three or five years later or ten years later – and you find these particular things – and you remember them – and you remember that you once loved this particular thing or that particular thing – so you decide take it out of storage and keep it nearby for a while – even though you don't need it. You never would have stored it away if you needed it. But you kept it. You kept it because you like having your own hidden treasures. You have forgotten these things – you just occasionally glimpse the box or the bin that they're stored in when you shove all of the clothes hanging in your closet to one side – or when you scoot all the boxes over that were blocking it from view – or when you go tearing through all that mess looking for a tax form or a Service Agreement or whatever. Your experience of it becomes more and more rare. You are just aware that you have treasures. And somehow that maintains an underlying happiness.

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