- from W. Somerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge
Going through the process of radically thinning out the contents of the ole domocile, you start to realize the magnitude of all the things you keep simply because you have them. It's staggering. Even/especially for a guy in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. I realize so many of these objects have shadowed me because I've moved straight from one apartment to another, non-stop, since 1990. Yeah, you tend to slough off a bit each time. But, for the most part, virtually anything that might one day be remotely useful just gets thrown in the truck, then pushed to the back of a new closet.
When there's a bit of open air between you and the next place of dwelling, however, you start to look at these multifold bits of matter through a totally new lens: Do I need to take it with me now? Will it really be indispensible when I set up shop later? Does it represent some cloying sentimental attachment that I'd be better off, emotionally, without? Does it have enough value that the pawnshop will give me something for it? Is it even recycleable?