I don't exactly dislike packing. I like sorting through my stuff, partly just as a general inventory, and partly as an opportunity to throw things out and free myself of some of the clutter that weighs me down. I even quite like the challenge of trying to get as much stuff as possible packed neatly into one box; it's the only time that I feel justified in my belief that Tetris does count as a transferable skill. I like feeling that I'm imposing some kind of order on it all, that just for a second or two I'm making inroads against entropy.
What I hate is the times when I survey the chaos around me and it feels like so many tin cans tied to my ankles, clattering around after me every time I try to take a step. And the times when I look at the slowly-emptying shelves and remember why I put everything here in the first place, and all the little bits and pieces seem to rise up in a huge wave of guilt and sadness.
We're all walking around backwards: we can see where we've been, but not where we're going. We're packing for rain, for shine, for first dates and last rites, for days and nights and all the grey times inbetween. We're packing anything that looks like a map.
I feel as though I have spent half my life cramming heavy-handed symbolism into tattered suitcases.
VLADIMIR: Where do you go from here?
POZZO: On. (Lucky, laden down, takes his place before Pozzo.) Whip! (Lucky puts everything down, looks for whip, finds it, puts it into Pozzo's hand, takes up everything again.) Rope! (Lucky puts everything down, puts end of rope into Pozzo's hand, takes up everything again.)
VLADIMIR: What is there in the bag?
POZZO: Sand. (He jerks the rope.) On!
VLADIMIR: Don't go yet.
POZZO: I'm going.
VLADIMIR: What do you do when you fall far from help?
POZZO: We wait till we can get up. Then we go on. On!