Friday, January 16, 2009
And then
As I pack up my life,
I find pieces of my past in forgotten folders and hidden boxes.
Throwing them out is almost distressing.
It's not an easy process, and so I keep prolonging it, distracting myself with anything from trips away to naps to intoxicated stupors.
I'm feeling all the things I'm supposed to be feeling- from excitement to nostalgia and all the ones in between.
It's so cold, and yet I walk around with a smile, comfortable in the knowledge I don't have to do it for very much longer. And then I think of the Montreal spring- the refreshing morning after feeling about the Montreal spring and I cannot believe I will not live it again.
And then everybody and their mother wants to know what I'm doing next- where I am going, and why and when. And then I have to tell them they are cruel for expecting me to have figured it all out- whatever I do have planned it between me, myself and I. You will here about it when it happens.
And then I have to plan a farewell bash and I can't figure out how or when or how. And most importantly, who. All, I suppose.
And then I have to make my own goodbyes. Do I make them big, painful and heartfelt? Do I make them cold and casual, as I would expect of myself- a pat on the back, maybe a hug, and then a hop and a skip to the airport with a smile on my face, till I board the plane and cry my heart out in the privacy of a pressurized cabin filled with strangers?
I'll stop supposing and go back to those forgotten folders, for now.
I find pieces of my past in forgotten folders and hidden boxes.
Throwing them out is almost distressing.
It's not an easy process, and so I keep prolonging it, distracting myself with anything from trips away to naps to intoxicated stupors.
I'm feeling all the things I'm supposed to be feeling- from excitement to nostalgia and all the ones in between.
It's so cold, and yet I walk around with a smile, comfortable in the knowledge I don't have to do it for very much longer. And then I think of the Montreal spring- the refreshing morning after feeling about the Montreal spring and I cannot believe I will not live it again.
And then everybody and their mother wants to know what I'm doing next- where I am going, and why and when. And then I have to tell them they are cruel for expecting me to have figured it all out- whatever I do have planned it between me, myself and I. You will here about it when it happens.
And then I have to plan a farewell bash and I can't figure out how or when or how. And most importantly, who. All, I suppose.
And then I have to make my own goodbyes. Do I make them big, painful and heartfelt? Do I make them cold and casual, as I would expect of myself- a pat on the back, maybe a hug, and then a hop and a skip to the airport with a smile on my face, till I board the plane and cry my heart out in the privacy of a pressurized cabin filled with strangers?
I'll stop supposing and go back to those forgotten folders, for now.
