This past week I’ve been working on moving out of my parent’s house and into my first apartment. So far it hasn’t been much of a challenge packing all my things and getting them over to my new place. I actually procrastinated until the day I had to go down there to start throwing things into suitcases and I did this all without running behind schedule.
That was until it came to my books.
I’m still trying to figure out a way to pack them. I have a few at the apartment now, but I have a box, a backpack, and a duffel bag currently overflowing. While cramming them in yesterday, I started to wonder if I even needed to take them all with me. It’s not like I was going to re-read all of them anytime soon. I really only needed the ones for my classes. I could just leave a bunch here and slowly get them over time.
It just didn’t feel right though. I love having a shelf full of books in my house. There’s something about that library aesthetic that gives off a calm and peaceful feeling. I like the way it looks just like I like the way my DVD collection looks because they’re little pieces of me. These are the stories that stood out to me and made me laugh or think so much that I went out and spent money on them. They have meaning to me and that’s why it’s difficult to let them go.
Which means the next few days will be spent with me either buying a new suitcase or figuring out a smarter way to carry these books to my car and then to the second floor of an apartment building.