stuff.

I have this thing about packing. I seriously dislike it. No, I hate it. I do. I get all cooped up in feelings and memories and a strange sadness just saps me to my core. I can't express why I feel this way about the whole ordeal, it just is.

I lay out all the things, the stuff, the utter nonsense, that I may want to bring on my bed, and then whittle it down to what I really need. Slowly, though, I begin to get distraught. I make the decision to take or leave something, then automatically second guess myself, and wonder and ponder if I do really need an object or not. I feel tied down to all this stuff, when, in fact, I could care less. Really, I could. But then, I can't. I need to careful go through everything, dissect the articles of clothing and artists' materials, the nicknacks and the literature, and wonder if I really, truly need it.

I hate to think that I'm one of those people that needlessly overpacks. To me, it is such a bad thing, a weakness. To be overpacked is to mean that you are dependent upon worldly goods rather than oneself. I hate the idea that I am dependent upon the clothes I cram into a suitcase, the books I shove into a backpack, and then the groceries I pile on top. It's ridiculous. Really.

Then, I get myself down, in the realization that I may never be one of those people that can just pack a backpack and hit the road.

But that's who I want to be. Just one bag, and one journey, only needing me.