I moved all my things to my new place today. Just returned home and looking at our room, I’m shocked by how empty it looks. It doesn’t feel like a home anymore. It feels like a temporary sleeping place. A transition area.
And then I’m struck with sadness. Because of all the packing and work and worrying about my dissertation, I haven’t had time to contemplate our moving out. But now that my stuff are packed and gone, the entirety of it all just hits you.
This moving out marks an end to a stage of my life. I always knew it will end, but I never expect it to be this way. Part of me wants to rail against the injustice of it all, but part of me is just weary now, and want to start the part of my life that does not involve packing and moving my life around.
Its funny seeing your life packed up in suitcases, bags and boxes, knowing that these contain the things you’ve had all these years. Things that come attached with memories…
Those precious notes that you spent hours carefully writing out. That winter coat that kept you warm throughout the whole winter. The shoes that travelled with you around the world. The pot that you cooked many things with. The photographs.
It’s hard deciding what to take or what not to take with me. Throwing something that belongs to you away, feels like discarding part of your memory. Even if you don’t ever recall it again, even if you never do set your eyes on it again… throwing something personal away, feels like a part of you is being lost.
I think I may understand ‘hoarders’ just a tiny little bit.
Practicality wars with sentimentality and a compromise is finally reached.
Life goes on. A new chapter will open, but I’m comforted knowing I have so many beautiful memories and people to take along with me.