Moving is almost complete. It doesn’t look like it, but the majority of my stuff has left the apartment.
The worst psychic power to have would be that of impression – to sense the experiences associated with objects. Sorting through my belongings, it feels like I already do possess that ability, much to my dismay. It’s ludicrous – how can a screwdriver elicit feelings of despair? It’s a damn screwdriver! But with my elephantine memory for objects (thanks Mom, for that trait), every screw and knob and tool becomes an exercise in remembrance.
And with remembrance comes self-doubt. Knobs – there were two in the drawer, the apartment’s original equipment. I remembered – C had replaced two of the closet door knobs – the ugly, cheap plastic original ones – with more attractive brushed metal ones. She did the same with the light switch faceplate in the hallway. I belittled her for that – it’s just an apartment, I argued, just a temporary dwelling. Why bother? She was angry at my resistance to her attempts to personalize our home. Why did I do that?
For the first time in my life I feel regret. So much from just a drawer full of random items.
Get me to the desert.