So...Many...Boxes

It's a funny thing-stuffing one's life into a box. Though I'm finding that most of the stuff I come across is going into a trash can. It's only evidence, really. Evidence that I've had a pretty good three years here and that there's hope on the horizon that life in Peoria will be pretty good too.

Judging what makes a life "good" can be quite tricky. How is it gauged? For here, the proof is in photographs and stories collected. Late night chats and early morning/post binge-drinking breakfasts. Trinkets bestowed upon me and a box full of letter shirts.

But how will Peoria be judged? Granted, there'll be the monetary aspect and professional accolades, but what will those matter if I can't accumulate 228 phone numbers (for those seeking something quantifiable, but it's grasping at straws because you can't actually put a number on such things) or a bag full of parting gifts and contact information? I'm sure there'll be another box of photographs- me at the ballpark with friends, friends on the river front, going to concerts, fishing, road trips to Chicago, and other forms of (albeit more beneign) debauchery. I'll find a home there, but it will take more time when judged against these last three years.