I am currently experiencing a sense of boredom and meaninglessness that belongs purely to the space between two books. Left hanging for almost a week while I wait for my hold to arrive at the library, I've been trying to find other things to fill my time. And, (as you do), I thought, well, I might as well write up my last will and testament. That will occupy me for a day.
Now, while writing a will may seem like a non-event, I took it very seriously to assign every last knick-knick in my possession to the person that it meant something to. Bequeathing my library to my survivors was no mean feat. I thought it was going to be fairly simple, but as I perused all the titles, I was hit by the revelation that every last book was a genie-bottle for a significant memory. Every one reminded me of a time that I had sat up late reading aloud to Dad, or taken it in turns to read chapter by chapter with my brother, or searched Grandma's closets for Mum's childhood storybooks. I thought about how everything that I owned, in some way, connected me to someone else. An audiobook Dad gave me of his favourite story, 'The Little Prince', a CD of 'The Hobbit' movie soundtrack my brother gave me for my birthday because 'even the most epic soundtrack isn't epic enough to be my soundtrack', a bluebird of happiness locket that belonged to my Mum.
Writing my will quickly stopped being merely a task or project. It was a great reflection on my relationships, and left me with a sense of being truly loved and of loving truly. Regardless of the fact that I'm not likely to die any time soon.