possessions

bookshelf, originally uploaded by todaytimesone.

A few weeks ago I received an email from my parents: they are going to do a bit of work on the bottom half of the house to make it into a separate apartment that can be rented out. Sounds great, except that the bottom half of the house is where my room and all my junk is, compiled pretty much since I was born.

Even before they sent the email, my parents had started by throwing out a bunch of children's books that they assumed we couldn't possibly want:

mother: no, no, there was nothing important
me: did you through out the Henry the squirrel book?
mother: *silence*
me: err....
mother: how can you possibly remember that book!

So I insisted they take photos of the books before throwing them out so I could say yes or no. So I received the first batch today, and it forced me to ask myself a few questions: When will I be back in Australia, what is the point of owning these books if I don't go back, or even if I DO go back? Will I even read the ones I haven't read?

Every house I live in becomes an accumulation of STUFF, and it seems the STUFF just gets dragged around by you, never truly being sorted or properly thrown away, half forgotten and filling every corner.