I just packed everything I own into thirteen boxes. Out of the thirteen, I'm selling twelve.

That means I'm keeping one.

One.

It seems strange, all my worldly possessions all packed neatly into a large plastic bin. Considering the fact I need a walk in closet just for all my trinkets.

My trinkets.

In my lifetime, the minimum amount of luggage I have traveled with has been five, large suitcases. The minimum amount of time it has ever taken me to pack up all my stuff has been three months.

Five suitcases.

Three months.

Now twelve boxes sit on my porch as I await this Saturday's garage sale. It took me one hour to pack everything.

Twelve boxes.

One hour.

I feel like I'm selling everything that is me. It feels like I'm selling my entire life. All that I am. On one hand I want to cry, but on the other hand, it's strangely relaxing not having to worry about things. It's nice knowing that if I suddenly receive an invitation to visit a foreign country or move to some far away location, all I'll have to say is...

"Do you have room for one box?"