I'm probably one of the worst packers out there.
I'm unrational even when composing the obligatory list of shit I can't forget. I usually end up packing too much things, because "what IF there's this unexpected event for which the existence of one special thing is a matter of life and death and by chance that is exactly the item I left behind?". I'm also an exaggerator. That's practically all you need to know about me. Nice to meet you, too, random person in the internet.
I was recently complaining to a friend about how I have no freakin' clue how to pack my entire life into one luggage for a longer trip. "It's just 20 kilos, c'mon" said the materialist aka me.
"Your life is here," the witty young man said with an elegant gesture hinting to his heart, "not in a luggage."
It wasn't until we parted later in the night when it hit me: I'm an emotional cover up-er.
In the meaning that I replace the original meaning of an item or a feeling with another one, which I think is more essential for the sake of myself.
Remember how I wrote earlier about things not being just plain "things"?
I will still stand behind some things I said. E.g Certain items are a sentimental memorabilia. They are fragments of your past. They are memories. They are emotions. They are people
I mean it's true. Some items with a deeper idea behind them trigger emotions and/or memories.
It gets loopy when you feel like your entire room is filled with those things. Then I start thinking whether I have really deeply unconditionally gotten attached to an item in my so far short life. Or am I covering them up with an emotion? Or am I a hoarder?
I do connect with the reasons why people become hoarders, but I don't think I'm as far yet to be called as the last one...so I guess it's the first.
This reminds me of this page in "The Little Prince". If you ignore the original meaning of it you can kinda fit this picture into this context. What do you see? The cover-up or the real deal?
But in a way isn't it human? Don't we all get things mixed up sometimes? Either on purpose, when we are too afraid to admit the truth to ourselves? Or unintentionally, when we're experiencing something new for the first time?
Kinda like with love, don't you agree?
Someone loves the idea behind the person, but not the actual person? Maybe you're just afraid of being single and alone? Or the other person is just too good under the sheets? Do they just represent the best period of your life? Or they are just able to provide the lifestyle you're interested in? Etc
What is love? Baby, don't hurt me. No more.
Money can't buy me love.
And I will always love you.
Love me tender. I can't stop loving you. Where did our love go.
Love is all that matters. All we need is love. Can you feel the love tonight. Love is all around. Love me for what I am. Nothing's gonna change my love for you. Too much love will kill you. I can't make you love me if you don't. Without your love. You can't hurry love. Is this love. Where is the love. All for love. Love hurts. You give love a bad name. One love. What's love got to do with it. Addicted to love.
So sick of love songs...
No shit, man.
The more you listen to these love songs the more you realize that it can indeed be just about sex, need, crave, want, passion, fear instead. There is a fine line between need, want and pure love.
How can you know exactly that what you think you are feeling is actually what you're feeling? Are you covering something up with love?
I guess it all comes down to past experience.
I've been in love 3 times in my short life. At least that is how I thought.
1st time. Kindergarten. C'mon, we've all had that one crush at a mildly young age. To this day I can't even remember his name. To be honest, I remember him more vaguely than the ones I had less interest. What I do remember is how me and my that time best friend used to quarrel about who would in the end marry him. I haven't heard from him since those days. -Want. Definitely a want.
2nd time. Okay, please don't laugh. I'm being serious. 4 years ago. Summer. August. A fairly chilly night. My bare shoulders were covered by a slouchy cardigan. I was heading home. I passed the first door next to my section of the house. He was sitting on the second stair in front of the house. A bit older than me he had this Sinatra thing going on, but in a rebel kind of way. A wrinkled buttoned down with rolled-up sleeves, a vest unbuttoned at the front, skinny jeans and, my gosh, a fedora. We glanced at each other while I was passing him. You know that scene in a cheesy romantic comedy where everything starts going in slow mode? Yup, it went exactly like that. Believe me when I say that I'm not a strong believer of love at first sight, but back then...well, I was a teenager, I couldn't help it. It felt like the lovestory between Romeo and Juliet. Thank God it wasn't. Or else we would have died. But it did end quite tragically- I never saw him again. I wasn't that bummed out because of it. I guess I enjoyed the fairytale of it all and the sudden spark was magical. -Need
3rd time. Last year. We met at the beginning of spring. Owh, spring love, probably one of the most beautiful things one can experience. I guess you can call it the most "proper-ish" relationship of my life. But it was still kinda not that "real"? Anyway, it was complicated. Isn't it almost always? Our first contact didn't leave mutual feelings. For me it wasn't love at first sight. It was a journey. But falling for him was so natural. He was foreigner. 5 months older. Wow, was he tall or what? He was... very. He had the cutest dimples on his lower back. A guy with a handwriting that can be mixed up with an 8 year old's (the way he wrote -with his nose almost on the paper before him and the awkward grip of the pen- reminded also of a small boy that has just replaced his pencil finally for an actual pen). And with one of the weirdest sense of humors I've ever been against with. He made me feel beautiful inside and out. I never actually walked or sat, but instead I floated, while I was trying to catch the imaginary pink butterflies and bubbles surrounding me. Sometimes I felt so much that I thought I could explode into double rainbows and pink unicorns and purple confetti and purring kittens with milky whiskers and pixie dust and other happy shit you can imagine and spread joy into the darkest corner of this world. Yes, I was that bloody happy. -Love? I think it was love. Based on what I wrote earlier it has to be. Right?
With relationships I covered up, because I just didn't know better about love. At first it was the equivalent of need and want.
Coming back to packing. I guess my relationship with "things" is is the second type- replacement. If you'd pull the veil off you could see fear beneath it. The fear of change. The adventure in front of me is most likely the biggest thing I've ever agreed doing and most likely will it change how I look at the world, my life, well, basically me. And with having things that remind me who I used to be then maybe I won't loose myself entirely.
I'm excited for myself and at the same time frightened.
But overall, if you compare a single human being with Earth, the Universe...a person seems significantly irrelevant. And in this imperceptible time, place and manner something as small as an individual has a likely chance to...you know... just get lost. In some way we feel safe with things that support our individuality. It's not something I think about daily, I mean, I just like the things I surround myself with. But in a larger sense they do keep me grounded, especially on days when I feel fragile.
I have no idea what I'm talking about.
I guess I just have to get used to the idea that my life, with my identity, my loved ones and my memories, exists without material support. As long as I feel it then it's there, right?
No more covering up.
How are your relationships with cover-ups?
