three am, and i’m awake because i spent the last hour or so packing books and writing notes. (i enjoyed it; don’t worry.) (i hope my printing is legible and that you don’t go blind trying to decipher it, and i apologise in advance.) i’ve spent the last three days or so sorting through books, trying to decide what to store and what to mail and what to leave behind, debating whether or not to have a box shipped to me once i’ve settled into my flat in nyc, and the thing i’ve been telling myself has been simple: they’re only books — not only in the diminishing sense but only in the sense that, as physical entities, they are replaceable and will be replaced over the years as i [possibly] pour myself from this transient existence into a more [seemingly] permanent one.
like much everything else in life, i carry with me the ideas of the things that mean the most to me, and it’s the idea of what these books signify that i’ll miss [maybe] — but memory moves on, and i’m sure i’ll have nice piles in my flat by the end of next academic year, anyway!