Moving day tomorrow again.
My life is not large. It fits in approximately ten cardboard boxes of various sizes, most of them filled with books. This in spite of the fact that in the two years I’ve lived in this flat, I’ve accumulated more stuff than during the rest of my life put together. I guess it’s a sign of growth, or something. Or a sign of having an artist girlfriend…
Been going through my drawers, throwing out bits of life that have dried and fallen off. It’s like hair and fingernails and dead skin, these bits of paper that gather in the corners – they need to go every now and then. It wasn’t all bad: I found an old CD I thought I’d lost, and more memories than I knew what to do with.
The walls are stripped bare, pale and pockmarked with remains of bluetack, and I’m a bit maudlin’, even though there are good things ahead. In spite of the time I spent here, I don’t have much of an emotional attachment to this house: too much sharing with people I don’t really know. At least I’m going somewhere that’ll feel a bit more like a proper home.