There is no end, and I can barely remember back to the beginning when I decided that moving from a studio apartment to a one-bedroom apartment was just the thing.
The sum and total of my life now is books and boxes. Finding boxes. Filling boxes. Taping boxes. Running out of tape and going to the store for more. Looking through the recycling for more boxes.* Going to the post office and buying boxes. Going to E-Mart and carrying out my groceries in a box that I can use later. Putting books and books and books and books in these boxes and always, always seeing the shelves more than half-full. In this case, half-full does not indicate optimism.
I've also culled nearly 100 books from the collection. I'm still being judicious about it, but I'm about to topple over into ruthless culling. It hurts to cull. It hurts to not cull. It hurts to stand hovering with a book in my hand for a half-hour, unable to decide between the two piles. Moving day is approximately 18 days away.
Shoulda been a stamp collector.
*I was heading down to recycling every day with a spring in my step until Teri told me that the rats run through it. Now I approach the place less often and with more trepidation. Thanks, Teri.