It's been six years. Almost seven. This is the longest I have ever lived somewhere so packing obviously sets my emotions in motion. I will not miss the house no matter how lovely it is because I learned long ago a house is not where the heart is. I've lived in one-room apartments with three and a half people. I've lived in Booton where I was afraid of my own shadow with a lady who was a complete stranger. I've lived in a cute cottage with millions of acres to call my own and a four-wheeler to explore them; with a best-friend and her inspiring father and mother, religious with all of their good intentions, but I wasn't quite the easy-to-mold daughter they were looking for. I've lived in summer houses smack dab in the middle of winter when there is no electricity and no running water. Ever know how it feels like to carry cold water from your cellar, help chop the wood for the wood-stove so that you can warm that cold water up and bathe by the cupful and call it your shower? It all didn't matter; and because of these stories, I have even more character. Along with those, I have even more stories up my sleeve; and what it comes down to is, they are me.

This house is a mansion compared to what I've come from but I won't miss it. I learned long ago a house is only a house; what's important is the love that can be found within it. My home is mobile because it's within me; I'm in it wherever I go as long as I'm loving the life I am living.
I'll miss the walls of this bedroom but not for the house that they hold up. I'll miss them only because for almost seven years now, they contained me. They scream a permanency I needed when my outer society these past twenty years was constantly changing. These walls ARE me; the good, the bad, the happy, the sad, the friends that are still here, the ones that never truly existed. They are all still here; scripted all over the walls around me; in their own words, they've wrote to me, they left me their symphonies and no matter what I'll never have another room like it. Whoever paints these walls should feel bad about it. I guarantee, between Jay's room and mine, we're giving those painters one hell of a time. Two rooms they'll walk in and experience before they even see it.

By packing up this room, I've also had some realizations. I have an assortment of novels and a book collection, incomparable. When I own a home, one day, a library is a must and among the first things I will demand. When I marry one day, it will only be to a man as open-minded with his love of a good book as mine. A man who won't mind sitting on the library floor for hours reading together or going quote-for-quote with me out of Paulo Coelho books that I've all ready post-it noted a long time ago. A man who won't mind listening to my poetry because it speaks of him so dearly, is inspired by him so neatly, and shows my life so vividly.




These are my dreams and I applaud these walls for saving them for me.

Things I've learned while packing:

1.) I refuse to put my Paulo Coelho books into storage, he is way too far of a brilliant man to be stuck in a tupperware bin.

2.) I can't believe someone out-did Jodi Picoult as my favorite author. Maybe Jodi Picoult and Paulo Coelho are equally my favorite authors since their styles are way different; I mean I do admit they are both phenomenal. I just love how Paulo Coelho writes off of personal experiences, has had such an intense life, and keeps everything simple. His books are so quick, easy, and life-changing to read.

3.) I don't know what I have more of; clothes or books. It's amusing, too, because I have so much of each but I only wear (on a daily basis) a select few of the outfits from my closet and, as for books, I would only swear my life to some of them and recommend only some of them (again particularly Paulo Coelho or Jodi Picoult haha)

4.) If I procrastinate it is probably because I am writing. I wrote all this and guess what; I only packed one container of books so far and it’s 11:30; I have to work at 7:30 until like ten at night so I can’t even pack tomorrow. Haha fml, I guess writing is my nemesis as much as it is my nurturer. <3

5.) I've kept very random things. Very random things I probably should have all ready parted with. A. Long. Time. Ago. Why must I feel compelled to keep homework I did in high school or grade school? It's weird.

6.) It is much easier to pack your things up and go than it is to keep them and constantly keep them in order. For me, at least.

7.) There is not a SINGLE proper place to keep the remnants of a broken relationship. The trash is heartless for something that once was so close and meant so much but is it really healthy to keep those types of memories sitting in a box...? On the positive side, though, I am infinitely happy to only have the remnants of one serious relationship to decide the fate of.

my rant, for now. maybe add more and turn it into my memoir later. :)