Should I set fire to everything I own?

On moving home.

I’m in the process of moving out of my apartment at the moment. I’ve ended my lease, and will be going to another suburb.

For a million reasons I’m sad to be leaving Bondi, but there’s nothing to be done. The diminishing media business has ended up on the same train line as my crippling rent, and a head on collision looks imminent.

Best to get off at the station now, I think.

Either that, or I risk eventually having to sell my teeth for just one more whiff of the Eastern Suburbs air. The real estate agents have been taking a pound of flesh for so long, that’s all I’ll have left soon.

In truth, I should have made this decision months ago, but a lot has kept me in Bondi.

I love it here. All of it. The beach. The noisy, crowded 333 bendy buses. The overpriced cafes. The drunks. The gym-goers. The backpackers. The Locals. Put them all into a blender, add some protein powder, and I’ll happily drink the same concoction for the rest of my life.

But more than my love of Bondi, there has been a greater force that has kept me in this little apartment, paying rent I can barely afford month after month after month.

It’s my deep, dark, utterly depthless hatred of moving.

You could fill the galaxy with how much I hate moving. If you poured the hatred out of my body and into space, it would literally drown out all the stars.

If I was given the choice between ‘world peace forever’ and ‘never move house again’, I’d have to give it a really big think. Never move again ever? You can’t trust a deal that good, there’d have to be a catch.

But alas. No magic solution is going to appear out of nowhere. So I must, once again, pack my life into a series of sturdy cardboard boxes.

I know how this tragedy plays out. It’s the same thing every time. At first I see the move as an opportunity to throw out some possessions, and organise my life a little. I promise myself that I’ll start the job early, and do a couple of boxes a day.

But then I procrastinate. And procrastinate. And procrastinate. Reality usually hits about a day before the trucks arrive, and I find myself in a fugue state cramming whatever item is in front of my hands into whatever box is closest to my feet.

God I can’t do that again. There must be a better way.

Okay wait.

Maybe – and stick with me now – I should take all my earthly possessions, put them into a big pile, and then just set them on fire.

Yes! One big cleansing fire!

I could even make an occasion out of it. I’d ask a few friends over, and get their help throwing bulkier items off the balcony and into the pile. Together, we could enjoy a heartwarming bonfire in the middle of Sydney, watching everything I own get turned to ash.

Then, when nothing is left, I can kick off my shoes, walk into the ocean and join the closest dolphin pod.

Sure, living as a dolphin might not be what “society” wants, but at least I’ll be happy. Happy and free from the burden of moving home ever again.

But no. Instead I’m forced to toil like a Dickensian pauper, doing backbreaking manual labour in a workhouse of my own creation. But even those unlucky sods got a free meal and a place to sleep. Not me! Slaving away at the box-packing factory for nothing! Not a bowl of gruel! Not a flea-infested scrap of fabric to crawl under at night!

Or at least I will be slaving away at the box-packing factory at some point. There hasn’t been a whole lot of anything happening in the last few weeks, if I’ll be honest.

In fact, the only progress I’ve made is that I stopped putting things away some time ago. I figured there’s no point, because everything will have to be packed away soon. Quite soon, actually. I have to be out by Saturday.

I call that progress, anyway. But other, more accurate, people would probably say I’m just living in an untidy home.

Whatever. I don’t need them. I don’t need anything.

Except for maybe a lighter?