I pull clothes off the hangers and out of the drawer, folding, rolling, squeezing them into my suitcase. Halfway through with the closet, and ninety percent done with my suitcase. My 10 months in Japan is not going to fit neatly into one large, one small luggage and one purse, as accorded by the airline. I look around at the rest of my room, my novels, my non fiction, my magazines, my mangas, my textbooks, my notes, my guidebooks, my makeup, my perfumes, and it goes on and on. The only way is to ship them home, but I just don’t understand where they all came from. Its as if the things I brought to Tokyo just decided to have secret relations and multiply and became many to fill the room.
I don’t like throwing things away. Its waste. And if I could throw it away, I didn’t need to buy it in the first place. I know its semi-warped logic, but that’s how I feel. We are born to be consumers, we buy to consume, but I’m not done with the consuming, and there’s no space to bring it home with me for me to continue with the consuming.
I’ve been taking down photos and random postcards embellishing my wall, and returning the room to its original stark, emptiness. I have to take down my map of Japan soon, which I am very unwilling to, because all the places I’ve been in Japan have a pin pushed through the dot that represents it. It makes me happy just looking at the map of Japan, this very big volcanic island, and knowing that it is where I am right now.