I’ve moved home many times in my life, but each move seems to bring more luggage with it. Having moved to Germany with nothing more than a big heart and a suitcase in each hand, retrospectively it was a simple move. At least on an organisational level. The doubts I had about my ability to live, work and be happy in this country where the only things weighing me down.
This time, there are more than a few boxes, more than a few pieces of furniture and even a kitchen to move. Last night I started packing the things which mean the most to me. And from this big apartment full of so many things, the things that mean the most to me don’t even fill up one cardboard box. Neither are they in any way of any value to anyone except to me. A box full cards, letters, postcards, photos, old trinkets and my journals – bursting at the seams with programs, ticket stubs, little notes and all the un-edited details of my life. In other words: a box full of memories. Funny that.