Move

There's something about preparing for a move that just sucks the life out of me. I'm listless, unmotivated. I sullenly lounge around my apartment, the weight of the realization that I'm going to have to either pack up or get rid of all this unnecessary stuff crushing me.

When I express these thoughts out loud, on paper, on computer screen and read back over them, they sound ludicrous. Absurd. Melodramatic. Why can't you be thankful that you even have stuff? Why can't you be happy that you're graduating and moving on to something else? I want to wrap myself in a comforter cocoon and never emerge. I want my stuff to pack itself. I have the boxes, the packing tape and the old newspaper to stuff in the crevices. All my stuff needs to do is get up and enclose itself accordingly.

Maybe part of it is that it's a move in name only. It's actually a tabling. A shelving. A displacement of articles in various niches scattered throughout. A dinette set with brother. Boxes of who knows what in my parents' attic. Heavy stuff in a storage room. Me? An adult-girl, once again at the mercy of mum n diddy. That's how they say it in these parts.

My circle of friends? It will disband with time and distance. I finally carved out a little niche at my little church only to have to abandon it. I'm haunted by the nebulous haze that I'm re-entering, and I curse the meticulous mind that serves to remind me of the many things that didn't work out.

I know that I sound like The Writer. Like a moody teenager whose world has come crashing down around her because of a zit. There are times when I'm speaking Spanish and I know the words are wrong as they leave my mouth, but I'm powerless to correct them because of the immediacy of conversation. There are times when I know the answer's wrong as I'm writing it, but I write it anyway because I'd rather hope that it's right than leave it blank. But when will I get over the unfounded embarrassment of being myself?