A box of books

I still can't sleep. I'm just walking around labeling boxes, "Open me first" or, "Dad's" to mark which ones need to go at the front of the bus. Or the back. Maybe I'll put them in the back so I unload them last. Everything else goes into storage for the time being.

Everything else goes into storage. My life is all in boxes and is headed for a cold, dark cell for the next whoever knows how long. All my pictures and trinkets from travels. All my furniture and books. All my towels and sheets and crap I can't even remember now because it's been in a box all week. Funny how that happens. There are two boxes I keep reopening, and I think those are the two that will have to live at my dad's house. That and my clothes.

I have no idea how it's all going to fit. See, my dad is a collector. Some might say hoarder, but it's really only books. He has a two bedroom apartment, and little paths to everything. The walls are entirely made of books. There's no room for anything. My old bedroom furniture is still intact, but everything is books otherwise. There is only room to get to the two twin beds, and the closets have all of my grandma's clothes because she comes to visit so often.

Where am I going to fit? I think that's my big question. Where do I fit in the world now that I'm unemployed and homeless? Where is my space to carve out a home? A place of my own? Where the hell am I going to put myself for the next who knows how long?