my life is spilling over. somewhere in-between the boxes of shoes, books, cooking utensils and wash cloths, the things i have done, have lived for, are falling out of these hidden places. i look at the bursting closet of clothes that finally fit the way they should and how half of my closest is just dresses. dresses! not too long ago i loathed nylons and the way they trapped my skin. but, somewhere too in-between all the boxes and conversations about moving, my whole life right now has become about leaving it all behind. it, this, this!, my life up until this point. maybe it's my insane need to be reflective right now, in the last month of this long awaited stretch of time, but this doesn't make it all any less surreal or painful. in the quiet moments i want to be back as a teenager --not in this time but when i really was one-- musing over the love and loss i had endured, curled up listening to elliot smith or coldplay when they were good and just writing. in my more heated, jubilant moments i want to unpack everything in my apartment, re-arrange my life to what i finally want it to be like, and finally settle into something that is wholly mine, however i want it to be. but then i'm sacrificing the entire reason for this move: my writing.
i haven't finished the journal i started over a year ago. i have prided myself on being able to quickly document my existence in such a ridiculous stream of consciousness form. what is there to write about? new york three times over in the last eight months or bonnaroo or work or him or this triumphant life moment? i'll never stop being cryptic. never. my freelance work has dried up for now and am sporadically at best publishing my articles or quips. has my life been depleted to 140 characters? i am a twitter fiend. somewhere in this mess i realized that my life is dedicated to a certain thing at the moment, yes, but the things i loved for so long shouldn't be left to the wayside while i pack up my existence.
i sometimes look at my journals as long lost friends. they have the most detailed information i could ever give. some of my closest friends don't even know half of the stuff that i tell my journal. as a small child i used to write, "dear journal, how are you today?" and sort of expect some kind of implicit answer that it too was alright and ready to let me pour my heart out. now i write about heartache, though not recently, the perils of a full-time working life, detailed physical accomplishments, championed my self-esteem and that of my friends and where i am to go from here. that's always the trickiest because i can see into the future so well and get excited for it while tomorrow seems like a loss. the future i see now is hazy, perhaps because it is all actually happening. the metropass, the apartment cheques, the cable inquiries, bills, bills, bills and employment. in the grandest way possible, adulthood has arrived on my doorstep and refuses to leave. i should really tell my journal this. it would understand and console me in the only way it knows how.
and so here i sit thinking of writing instead of writing out the packing list for new york that glares at me with its icy blue stare. i shall blithely write it out and still i will be unsatisfied with what i have written. give me two choices and i will always seek a third and fourth. always. five days just isn't enough time away with only three and a half of those days in my beloved city. saturday night's mistakes will not recur this time around. with this new found responsibility and adulthood, i find myself strikingly in tune with everything my mind and body wants. everything. this saturday night there will be no mistake.
