I've spent the past two days unpacking my belongings and settling into my new apartment. Instead of figuring out where the trash and recycling goes, I've been creating reading nooks. I've moved the furniture at least three times already, seeing how the light hits at different points of the day and how it works with the rest of the room.
The thing I haven't yet gotten to is my collection of books. Unpacking books promising hours of sifting through pages, looking up book cover designers, and organizing them into random categories, all things I love. I save this for last, long after I've put away my clothes, assembled all the furniture, and rearranged all of the silverware in the most accessible fashion. This time, I've told myself I won't double stack. I'll keep my books in check and buy more bookshelves when I need them, but I know what these shelves will look like in three months. They will be haphazard, stacked in piles, threatening to fall off the shelf or squash another book. They will have been opened and read, loved and lent out. They will contain notes, receipts, and currency. Some will be in perfect condition, some will have bent pages, some will have warped pages from being read in the tub. Their number will grow as I get used to the new place, and when it's time to move out I'll do it all over again.