There's something depressing about moving. You have a place, you have a routine, you have a comfort level. You think you're doing good.
Then you move. Out of state, perhaps. Say, Colorado.
And you get depressed by the simple act of packing.
Everything that proves you exist gets shoved, crammed, placed, wedged, or delicately set into a box. Sometimes it's a bland, boring, non-descript cardboard box. Other times, that box has "Home Depot" on it, because during your last move, you thought it'd be better to buy a bunch of boxes all the same size for easier packing into the u-Haul. That didn't work out, but it doesn't mean you throw out the boxes, because a box is a box is a box.
Other boxes you nabbed from the local package liquor store. You pack your books into the "Captain Morgan's Rum" box, your CD collection fits in a Jack Daniel's Old No. 7 case, and that box from a case of Absolute Vodka seems like just the thing for your collection of Climbing magazines.
But in the end, your worldly possessions are in a box. The boxes are stacked, neatly, along one wall in the garage, in the corner of the dining room, or in the closet in your bedroom. Stacked, labeled, and waiting.
Patiently waiting for the chance to once again breathe free air. Free, clear, crisp, mile-high Colorado air.
Two weeks, and I'm outta here.