Words Left Along

I’ve wanted to move from AZ for a while now. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great place if you’re near the big city. That being said, I am not. So it’s difficult being here, on the frontier. 

Even if it wasn’t the distance to anything fun that was the issue, this last year has made me exceptionally frustrated with the heat. I’ve pretty much had my AC running since May and only turned it off in November. 3 months of tolerable outside temps is no way for someone to live. 

I don’t have any plans to move, hell I don’t even have any savings or a place to go. I’ve been telling myself that I’m gonna live out of my van. That I’m gonna just van life for a year or two and put all that rent money from my house into my savings and living funds.

The problem, as always, is my lack of control with myself. If I had the discipline, to overcome my depression, my adhd, my general malaise with life. People say the only thing you can control in life is yourself and I feel like the exemption to this rule. 

So I try to force myself to do something, anything related to it. Sometimes this is designing the van build. Other times it’s throwing away things I can get rid of. One of the most common of these is packing a box. 

I’ve packed a decent amount of boxes now. The majority of which contain all my bedroom decore. The other half contain my office stuff. They also each contain something more. 

Each box is not only labeled on the front and side what they are, but they also have labeled on them if they’re: donateable, sellable, trashable, or personal. To me and my mind right now, none of those things, excluding personal, are what they are. I’d had to sell or get rid of any of it. But they’re labeled as such so that if and when I die here in a few years. My brother and father can easily sort through them. 

It’s strange to prepare for your death. I don’t think many people give it though until they have to. But when you begin to see your life through this lens, then you really see what’s actually the important stuff. Even then, the things that are important are just things that I feel my family might want of mine. Even then, taking the thrifting and reselling I do into account, I fully know that this stuff will eventually wind up in a landfill or as someone’s curio relic.

There is no permanence beyond the last memory of you. A haunting thought to a mind that fears being lost, yet it’s nothing to a mind that is no more. It’s strange to know none of these things matter in the end yet unwilling to depart myself from them. I wonder if there’s any word for this; aside from dissonance of course. A word to capture a need, an emotional thirst to possess when in the end it will only be yours temporarily.