The emotional weight of moving never presses on me until I start packing. For weeks I've been making plans, calling movers, arranging utilities. None of that brings home the idea that you are leaving things behind, and going somewhere new like placing a book into a box. Waves of nostalgia and contemplation of an unknown future collide and swirl to create a numbing bittersweet cocktail.
So I stopped packing, and watched Adventureland. That didn't help. Nostalgia compounded by nostalgia has left me listless and morose. Where was I in 1987? I was 13. Now... I'm no longer 13. I don't feel as old as I am. I suppose few people ever do when they stop to remember where they were when they were 13.
And so, looking at the boxes that have to be moved... again, I find myself stunned at the story arc my life has followed. I still don't know how it ends, and I suppose that's why I'm still here. I can't leave until this story has an ending. One more satisfying than "He lived until he died." Which, by the way, is what I want on my tombstone if I have one.
And that's one of the many problems with me. I'm an incredibly morbid individual, and all examination of my past becomes a contemplation of the future. Every move to a new home, and there have been many, is a reawakening to the experience that everything is a temporary condition. It makes me realize why people buy a house and stay there and never leave. There is comfort in consistency. Having one place you go back to where you can hide your boxes of stuff and never unpack them. Never open them up unless you have to, and only on days when you want to feel time heavy in your mind. Never because you have to.
An hour ago I felt full of wisdom. Not so much at this moment.
When you're a kid the world shapes you. Choices are made for you, around you, and sometimes because of you. At some point you are dropped wherever you are and told "This is your life. Do something with it," and from there it's you shaping your world. Some people try to avoid making the decisions that will change their lives by changing as little as possible. Lifelong passengers on the road trip of life. Some plot their courses carefully, and direct the events of their experience to take them where their will and their dreams dictate.
I've done a little of both, and although I've been a passenger for the last couple of years I look in my wallet and see I have a driver's license again. Consistency is a comfort, but comfort isn't all it's cracked up to be. There are experiences better than the familiar, and although there are fears to be faced when leaving the known, I have always loved a little adventure. Even when it's only a very little.
A move is always a new beginning. Sometimes it's easier to look back and face familiar nostalgia than to brave an uncertain future. Eventually the future always finds you, though. Even if you try and hide under old boxes full of stuff from 30 years of moving. Might as well just stick them in a closet somewhere, forget about them, and go for a drive.
So I stopped packing, and watched Adventureland. That didn't help. Nostalgia compounded by nostalgia has left me listless and morose. Where was I in 1987? I was 13. Now... I'm no longer 13. I don't feel as old as I am. I suppose few people ever do when they stop to remember where they were when they were 13.
And so, looking at the boxes that have to be moved... again, I find myself stunned at the story arc my life has followed. I still don't know how it ends, and I suppose that's why I'm still here. I can't leave until this story has an ending. One more satisfying than "He lived until he died." Which, by the way, is what I want on my tombstone if I have one.
And that's one of the many problems with me. I'm an incredibly morbid individual, and all examination of my past becomes a contemplation of the future. Every move to a new home, and there have been many, is a reawakening to the experience that everything is a temporary condition. It makes me realize why people buy a house and stay there and never leave. There is comfort in consistency. Having one place you go back to where you can hide your boxes of stuff and never unpack them. Never open them up unless you have to, and only on days when you want to feel time heavy in your mind. Never because you have to.
An hour ago I felt full of wisdom. Not so much at this moment.
When you're a kid the world shapes you. Choices are made for you, around you, and sometimes because of you. At some point you are dropped wherever you are and told "This is your life. Do something with it," and from there it's you shaping your world. Some people try to avoid making the decisions that will change their lives by changing as little as possible. Lifelong passengers on the road trip of life. Some plot their courses carefully, and direct the events of their experience to take them where their will and their dreams dictate.
I've done a little of both, and although I've been a passenger for the last couple of years I look in my wallet and see I have a driver's license again. Consistency is a comfort, but comfort isn't all it's cracked up to be. There are experiences better than the familiar, and although there are fears to be faced when leaving the known, I have always loved a little adventure. Even when it's only a very little.
A move is always a new beginning. Sometimes it's easier to look back and face familiar nostalgia than to brave an uncertain future. Eventually the future always finds you, though. Even if you try and hide under old boxes full of stuff from 30 years of moving. Might as well just stick them in a closet somewhere, forget about them, and go for a drive.
Anyway, I've applied to thirty jobs since I've been here. Starsucks was just one and I was only pissed because the whole app process including this virtual job tryout thing I had to do took several hours to complete. All I can do is keep trying. And be very very grateful that Rob is still getting UI checks and his parents are letting us stay for free so we're still saving rather than spending what we don't have.
Are you moving in with your girl?