My car has been a movable storage unit ever since I cleaned out a shared unit with my mom. It is the one place I can’t control mess—re/organizing/cleaning is my way of coping. The actual interior (carpet, dashboard) is a collection of coffee stains, cat hair, and dust. 1/7

I would never let these things collect anywhere else (in any room / any space I call my own). I have no space for these things. Physically. Mentally. My partner reminds me that childhood habits of “getting rid of something because you don’t have space for it” isn’t necessary. 2/7

This is all a larger rumination + today seems to be a good day to write it out. I am constantly ruminating, rearranging—or—letting things go because I have no space. What is the in between? Peace? Everything is in a box—these material things connected to memories—in boxes 3/7

I live in an archive of all the things I can’t let go of—and all the lost things I let go of because I didn’t know how to carry them anymore. Curated and tucked away is where I feel contained. My car—a thing I hardly drive anymore since unemployment—sits and collects. 4/7

It contains: clothes for goodwill, 2 art easels, gym bag, *all* of my grandmothers poems (the heaviest thing), Xmas present for a friend, lacrosse gear, mix tapes (there’s a cd that recently got stuck in my radio + I’m worried abt which one it is) and I guess normal car stuff 5/7

when I cleaned out the storage unit—I packed up my entire childhood in a few boxes and put it in the back of my car. When I lost my first academic job, I put my entire office in my car. When I moved out of my moms, I put all of my essentials in my car (dad’s urn rode shotgun) 6/7

There’s more here to unpack. Heavy boxes. And I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m trying to say. ~ I was taking things out to my car and had to come back inside and record / write this out. And maybe. I don’t need to have a conclusion. Just process. 7/7

but also! Don’t even get me started on closets & writing desks* okay, end thread / for now*