My Life In Boxes

From the age of 18 I have not stopped moving around. Nearly every year since leaving high school I have been living and working in a different place. I get a job, unpack my belongings and at the end of the mustering season or a year or so later, I'm packing and moving on again.

This year, though, has taken it all to a new level. The beginning of the year saw me leaving my job and life in town to only a few months later leaving the station me and my former partner in crime were on and since then I haven't stopped moving being anywhere from three days to two months on a property before heading to the next place living off of whatever I need and whatever can fit in my Landcruiser.

Most of my belongings are in a rented storage shed. Everytime I lift the roller door into it, there it is: Reality in a box. His stuff on the right wall, my stuff on the left.

There's that old saying about keeping the home-fires burning. At Dad's this rings very true. My bedroom has barely changed since I was 10 years old. In fact, I've actually moved more stuff in much to Dad's annoyance.

"You're supposed to be moving out, not moving more stuff in," he reckons. Yeah, not going to happen till I have my own house on KI to move it all into.

At Mother's it is a different story. My boxes and stuff is moved around to new locations across the motel according to convenience and necessity. Everytime I go back I am sleeping in a different bed, in a different building.

But I don't really want to keep this nomadic life. I would love to settle down. I would love to hang my dresses in a wardrobe, put my clothes in drawers, put all my books on a shelf and display my stuffed toys beside my bed. I'd like to establish a garden that doesn't get eaten by poddy calves, have a carport to park my toyota under, have a yard so my dog doesn't have to be tied up all day. But all that I hope for seems so faraway. So for the time being, my life is in boxes.