Deep in my archives, I have a video I recorded on my last night in my old apartment, after someone frantically knocked on my door looking for drugs. I realize now it was a vicious prank. This is probably my last night sleeping in the old place and I haven’t yet received a threatening knock this evening. Even after changing over my mailing address, it still doesn’t feel real. It’s not regretting I feel; nostalgia?
I grew up in this house until I went to elementary school.
The spare bedroom was my room and I had a particular memory where I thought I could hear some noise or something from downstairs through this space. Years later, when I would come to rent this house as an adult, I took off the vent to see that it had been long ago boarded up. Maybe it was just an overactive imagination?
I had my first philosophical idea in the backyard.
When I was about five years old, I had a deep thought: We’re all the same “person” or spirit, each of us living a different perspective of the same soul, and that when we die, that lifeforce just inhabits another being. I’m not sure if there’s a proper name for that type of thinking. Is there a religion tied to it? I’ve only casually looked…
I learned to poop on the toilet in this house.
My parents had a checklist where if I used the toilet enough to fill the page, then I’d receive a bicycle. I enjoyed the process of achieving each step toward getting the bicycle, actually now that I think about it, more than the bicycle itself. I never did learn how to ride a bicycle, but I guess that’s one potential origin of my motivations?
Otherwise, I only have brief memories of living here as a child. I don’t think I’ll miss living here much at all. It was a great place to develop my autonomy, overcome some demons, learn to admit that I was just transferring problems from one addiction [alcohol] to another [hoarding], and work toward fixing those deeper problems.
But it had its problems, too.
It was too far away from civilization, in a way, so it was easy to become reclusive. As I attempt to downsize and move closer to the city, one step toward that is moving into an apartment where, sure, the screaming kids are closer, but so are the nicer neighbors. Meeting my neighbors and having conversations with them is great.
We may live our lives, but we don’t live alone.
At the same time, if we overstep our boundaries, that’s when we get into situations where people will prank us on our last night sleeping somewhere, so I guess it’s a matter of priorities. Gathering any remaining memories from this house was less important to me than gathering all my stuff and getting everything moved out.
Tomorrow, I may have my last walkthrough and have some nostalgic lamenting…
|Sources: My personal experiences.|
|Inspirations: On these last few days before I move out completely, I’ve been writing about the experience on a more subjective level, rather than about the stuff I’ve been moving, but how those emotions have been affecting me. I don’t want the next move to take even a fifth as long, which means more maintenance throughout my year-long lease toward downsizing. The next book, Downsizing Zeal, therefore, might be significantly longer, more comprehensive, but might be more about the practical skills of selling things and parsing through old things than Moving Zeal, which was just skimming off the top and packing it all up.|
|Related: Other Moving Zeal essays.|
|Photos: Behind what I thought was a vent, which fascinated me as a child. The second photo is me taking a photo of the photo on my phone. The third photo is the original of that photo.|
|Written On: March 8th [45 minutes]|
|Last Edited: First draft; final draft.|