moving alone is lonely work. packing up one’s life, all your little belongings, all your sad memories in boxes, building the boxes and then filling them up with your possessions. you hold them and stuff them in, you arrange them in such a way giving attention to some items and others haphazardly stacking, risking breakage.
you keep going until it’s all done, stacked or piled up in dusty boxes and bags, sneezing because you haven’t cleaned, scared, nervous, wishing you could just be excited.
wanting this to be over and missing the whole experience again as it’s eaten up by your fear, gobbled up and there you are again thinking back and wishing you’d enjoyed it more…one more chapter of your life closed, another begun, seemingly always randomly, still haven’t figured out that sacred pattern that you used to be so sure was there, but now you’re not so sure because as you get older things stop being as magical, or you’re just not buying it anymore, or you’ve forgotten how to look for that, that feeling that you used to get all the time, that something was just around the corner and you had all the time in the world to find it.
another chapter ending, and you feel the book closing, the pages drawing together. and you try to find the thread of the story, where the plot is going, but the truth is you never knew about that, you were always making it up as you went along and not doing a very good job of it. but you kept trying and it doesn’t get easier, it seems like it should get easier but it doesn’t. it just doesn’t. so you pack up one more time, all your belongings one more time, into the boxes, into the bags, the things you’ve been moving from place to place for what seems to be your entire life. and you hope that this will be the last one for awhile, for a long time. that this will be the place that you can stay. that will be a home. because it’s been a long time since you’ve felt that. a very long time.