Tonight I put two and a half and a closet into boxes. Somehow it feels like a success. But also, a failure.
Moving makes us put our lives into boxes. This is Kitchen. This is Bedroom. These are Books. Those are CD's.
My inner self doesn't want to be compartmentalized like that. The person who reads Little Dombey listens to Louis CK? The person who watches Fight Club also watches Giselle?
For someone who's been in therapy for YEARS, moving puts so many things in perspective.
I am a complex human being. Fuck, we all are. And unlike my parents, I want to recognize all of those parts of me.
I also realize that there is a HUGE part of me that will miss Glostah. But there are things to look forward to. And with my new (albeit temporary) jobby job, I'll get both.
But what I need to - and am working on - learning, is that we all have LOTS of stuff going on. None of it is good. None of it is bad. All of it just is.
So, I'll continue to cry. And I'll continue to laugh. And I'll continue to navigate a life that will always be open to possibiluty