It's a day of reflections.
For a lot of my life, I have held on to things that I thought, in some way, defined me as a person. My weird little odds and ends. Knickknacks. Quirky posters and trinkets.
I have a plethora of books... that I never seem to have time to read.
Birthday cards with half-hearted, half-assed sentiments.
Items found in dusty antique malls, the hidden walmart bag under a table at an old woman's estate sale, a thrifted score that somehow made me a little more unique for owning it.
And for all these things I owned, I never realized how poor in life I really, truly was. But even now that I know, I struggle with the possibility of leaving these things behind. The idea of getting rid of them.
For nine months I lived out of three bags. Three bags became two. Two became a backpack. I left things behind in Australia, things I knew I wouldn't miss.
And even now, I find myself still only utilizing or wearing the things I took with me. The things that survived the culling. Or weren't eaten by acid spitting flies. (Rest in peace, Lu LaRoe tights.)
I've tried on my "old clothes" and they feel all wrong. I feel like I went shopping and spent money I didn't have. They don't feel familiar. They don't feel like... they belong to me. I remember wearing them, of course, before I started my whirlwind of a new life in November. But they no longer feel like mine.
I sit in this crowded room, looking at these things that used to be so tightly tied to who I WAS. I look to the future, knowing with almost clear certainty, that I will not be staying here.
And I wonder... how much of "me" will fit in my bags?
When I first left, I was rushed. I was panicked, excited, and was looking at the prospect of constantly moving. I had to pack light. I had to be practical. I wasn't going with intent to make a home, just the intent to adventure with the man that I love.
But when and where we go next... will it be a home? Will we stay? How much of me should I bring? How much should I leave behind?
Even though these things do not define me anymore, there are things that I would like to have wherever and whenever we decide that we are "home". Like my canopy. My favorite pillow. My books. My first knitted blanket that weighs 15 pounds.
I could start again, of course. If it is a need, and not a want, I could always try to get it again. I can redefine myself. I can do anything. I don't need things. I just need 
It is funny to realize that these musings hold no relevance. It isn't about the stuff. It is about... not knowing.
It's about looking back at where I was when I met
When I didn't know, at that first conversation, when we hit it off, that I was going to fall madly, deeply, unforgivingly in love with him. That I was going to find love that I thought didn't exist. That I had given up on ever finding myself.
I didn't know that the person that I had been looking for my entire life was on the other side of the world.
And now I don't know what the world has in store for us together.
I don't know where home will be.
We don't know where we want to settle down, just that we want to do it together.
I don't know what the next nine months will bring, so I think part me is desperately trying to cling to the physical things that give me some sort of grounding. But I need to let these things go.
Because one thing is for certain, I don't need them. The only things I need are clothing, food, shelter, and the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. Everything else is optional.
HOWEVER, I would like to know what "an acceptable amount of reading material" really is to airlines.
