A confession

I keep telling Rainman I am going to pack up my bookcases, leaving out books I haven't read yet as my summer reading, sorting through and donating those books I will never read again.

Yet, every time I stand in front of my little library, I am frozen.

These books tell the story of me in so many ways -- different phases in my life that I went through,  novels that I devoured, books that were painfully hard to get through. There are books that remind me of courses I aced in school, books that remind me of growing stronger while working through a very painful breakup, books that bring me back to my childhood.

These time capsules that opened my mind and allowed me to venture outside of the four walls of my apartment are all so very much a part of me. And thinking about putting each and every one of them into a box for the next four months or carting them off to be loved by a stranger fills me with a sadness. As though I am packing away a part of me as I get ready for this new adventure.

And because I feel so inept at packing up these objects that have filled me with life, I am afraid to invite Rainman to my apartment where he will see that I haven't followed through with what I keep saying I am going to do. I don't think he would fully understand the connection I have to characters and ideas that only exist in black and white, thus he would be perplexed with my paralyzed state.

I know they are going to a new home, a better home, a home of new adventures. I know I am going to a new home, a better home, a home of new adventures. And this whole thing feels very silly.

Yet, still, I find myself frozen.