Packing has become a task that seems to involve odd metaphysical complexities.
For days and days now, I have been packing and packing. Boxes get filled and added to the pile in the corner. Papers are sorted and then either filed or discarded. Closets are cleared. Food is eaten, packed (for stuff that has unusual value per unit weight and/or volume), given away, or discarded. Books are stacked and packed and tucked away, and then new caches of previously forgotten books are discovered and given the same treatment.
And yet, through all of this, there always seems to be the same amount of packing left to do. Back on August 5th, I was supposedly 50% packed. That number still seems basically right six days later, despite having spent more of the intervening time packing than doing anything else.
Hopefully today will be the day when 50% mysteriously and near-instantaneously becomes 100%, when I can throw a few critical items into a suitcase, and when I can get on the bus to Toronto/New Orleans/Washington D.C.