The weight of the world, i.e. My goddamn storage locker

I’ve been stressing for years about what to do about the hundreds of boxes of stuff in my storage locker. As you can see the boxes are packed in there like sardines. When I try to organize the stuff I have to take the boxes out one-by-one (and they all weigh a ton) to get to the boxes in the back. And then I have to sort through each box and try to organize the stuff in the boxes (which can take hours). And then after a couple of hours I have to lug all the boxes back into the locker (did I mention they’re heavy)… I spent about 6 months in 2020 trying to sort through the boxes just trying to figure out what’s in them (and throw out some of the junk I don’t need). I managed to go through about 30% of the boxes before I got overwhelmed by the task. It gets harder and harder because you gotta pull out every single box in the front layers to get to the boxes in the back layers.

And even if I get all the stuff somewhat organized — there’s about 50 different categories of stuff — I still have to figure out what to do with it. I’ve willed all the stuff to my two sisters when I die, but they’re about the same age as me and they might croak before me. And even if they out-live me, what are THEY gonna do with all the stuff. They’ll be Little Old Ladies at that point and how would they even be able to lift all the boxes?? Let alone figure out what to do with the stuff.

The only way to really do it is to get an apartment where I could lay out all the boxes in one big room where I could really sort through the stuff. It’s impossible to do with the storage locker — by the time I pull out 10 or 20 boxes and stack them in the hallway, I’m exhausted, and then I have to pack them all back into my locker before I leave — so it’s like I have to start all over from scratch every time I go to my storage locker.

Part of me thinks — on a philosophical level — I’m just being burdened by my possessions, by this anal-retentive compulsion to hold onto things in the sinking sand of this transitory life. The writer Aldous Huxley, later in his life, his house burned down and he lost all of his important papers and original manuscripts and artwork and all of his archives. Oddly, later he said it was “liberating” and “cleansing” to be freed from the burden of his possessions and his past. So there’s that. And I can understand that point of view, too.


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