Oh, god, I hear you. When I moved to New Orleans I took almost none of my stuff with me, since I didn't want to have to wait and actually, you know, move, when I could instead just hop a train and live out my suitcase for... I guess almost a year now, whoops? But that means I left behind hundreds and hundreds of books. They are all still sitting in my Dad's basement, waiting for me to have the time and energy to go back and deal with them.

But do what with them? I have no idea. I miss having them near me in a weirdly visceral way -- it still doesn't feel like I really live here, not with all my books so far away. And if I continue to move around in the future, it's going to be deeply impractical to bring all those books with me, but what else can I do? Try to narrow them down to just my absolute favorites? But then what about my copy of all the Icelandic Sagas, or all those Ray Bradbury stories, or my collection of books about neuroscience? Do I just get rid of them?

Anxiety is definitely the word. That's actually one other good thing about moving to Chicago -- if I do, I might be able to convince my Dad to just drive my books out for me, since his family lives there. Because - my books! I need my books!