The constant moving has driven me to depression. It's hard to imagine packing and shipping hundreds of kilograms of books and half a gym in such a short time. My trapezius and lower back muscles are still severely strained. Swimming for long distances causes pain, and repeated visits to rehabilitation centers haven't helped. I've even developed bedtime migraines, which I haven't experienced in years. Lately, my sleep has been patchy and I'm exhausted. Thankfully, there's only one more place left to empty; if there were one more, I really wouldn't be able to hold on. Q^Q Recalling an interview I did with three other writer friends six years ago, one of the questions asked about my ideal life. My answer was a bare room, simple, with almost nothing in it. No need for a view, no need for delicious food, no need to starve or die of thirst, just a comfortable bed, pillow, and desk. That's it. Now, facing these endlessly reorganized "homes" filled with the same stuff, I'm not overwhelmed or like I'm living a sham. On beautiful summer days, the things I want to write about pile up like the clutter before my eyes, madly piling up in my mind, with no outlet. I clearly don't have much of a shopping urge, and I've always tried to pare down, so why have I been repeatedly swallowed up by this mountain of trivialities for so long? If possible, I would like to pile up all the unsorted clutter, light a fire and burn it all.