Another day at work, a few hours to relax at the bar with some wine and my book and I am now here, at my desk allowing my thoughts and words to interrupt the packing that will eventually lead to my return home.
As I laid articles of clothes, sheets, pillow covers, towels, and numerous of other things into a suitcase I began to find my thoughts trailing to a place that has left me feeling uncertain about my choice I have made. What if I am making the wrong decision? Am I taking a step back? Am I failing by going back home? Will things be the same? I began to question everything I was choosing until I laid down on my bed and allowed the music to just engross my mind. I called Andy. I haven't spoken to anyone really about my thoughts and feelings about moving, about leaving, about again living at home. Have I not made the effort to explain and tell people how I've been feeling or have people been unavailable? Whatever the case, I have found myself here, feeling this emotion as often as I breath.
I called Andy. I needed to spill my guts. Let it out. Cry out to someone that would understand, that would take the time to hear my worries and every concern that has enveloped my mind ever since this reality has begun creeping closer and closer.
Each time I have opened up a suit case or pulled the cap off of a tub to fill with possessions that I have collected over the years, I have begun to feel more and more alone. I know that is all we ever are in this world, in the end we are always alone. Alone with ourselves, alone with our own thoughts, and merely surrounded by the people that pass through life.
As Andy spoke to me and tried to put things into perspective for me, to try and help me look at the things that my tears were blurring, I began to think about everything I had packed, all the empty hangers that currently hang in my closet. It's not about the shirt I wore that one time I kissed him, the towel that felt best against my sunburned back, the journal that contains the contents and details of my life for the past four years, the socks, the shirts, the jeans, the dresses, the coats, the vests, the jewelry, the books and everything else that I have packed up. It is not about the papers that I wrote that had an A+, the videos that I create in my production courses or the photos that I have taken and framed. Whether I packed everything I had or not, it would not matter. Everything that I pack would not make a difference because everything I have that I will ever need, that I have learned, loved and cherished from these past four years are inside me, inseparable from me. They will forever be embedded in me. These things that I pack are merely just "paper and cloth" but in the end, what is their true significance? They are only items.
Writing truly makes me feel better. It allows time for my face to dry from my own tears and just a chance to write, to let it out. Ahh I feel a little better. Alright, so I will now go back to packing. I will let it be what it simply is, putting cloth and paper into a carrying case and will continue on with my night, because in 6 months, this too will have passed.
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