Rebirth

Six years ago I sold a house and bought another one.
On a cold, dark Tuesday in February a huge truck backed up to the door of the first one and emptied it. I mopped and vacuumed its echoing carcase, loaded a toothbrush and a clean shirt into my car and went to the lawyers to hand over the keys. It would not be until Thursday that I could move into the next place and all my clothing, books, furniture, pots and boots, towels and radios, bowls and brooms, sewing machines and pictures and computers and shovels, all the clap-trap and paraphernalia in which I am embedded would remain in that truck until then.
So there I was on that gloomy Tuesday afternoon, free of trammel and care. "Noplace to go and all day to get there."
I booked into a motel and went down to Church Street for a completely idle stroll and a bite of supper. It felt like a new life. As if I were suddenly somebody else. I was suddenly freed not only of all that stuff but of any other concerns, worries and problems that had been growling in the back of my mind. The slate was clean and inviting.
For two lovely days I was a happy person, poking through the library, reading newspapers, which I seldom do, but this was a different life, so it was OK.
Then Thursday overtook me. I handed over a heap o' money and the huge truck returned and filled my fine new house and ratty old life full of all those familiar chattels and worries.
So when I try to think what, above all else, I would like to achieve this year or in the next 5 years or before crossing to that promised land the only thing that springs to mind is a return to those 2 glorious untrammeled days. I would like to get that truck back and then as soon as it lumbers off to Colchester to wait for a fictitious delivery in 2 days I would like to hop in my car with a toothbrush and a clean shirt and vanish.
You'd think it would be easier to get rid of stuff that it is acquiring
it. But you'd be wrong.