Moving households

The sweet metallic ozone-y scent rises from the pavement as the rains begin.  And it's cold again.

Cleaning house and letting go.  I stare down six (at least) years of good intentions then shut my eyes and let them go.  Move on.  The chemistry and math notes and the thoughts of med school that weren't quite my dreams.  Gone.  My heart was never enough in it to make it happen.  Whenever I thought about med school, I found excuses.  I found emptiness in my heart.  Not my calling.  When I decided (for real) to go to Spain, I made it happen.  When I decided I wanted to study theatre seriously last year, I found a way to make that happen.

The projects I was gonna work on but never got around to:  Gone.  The food I felt guilty for wasting.  Gone.  The clothes I held onto for sentimental reasons.  Gone.  The papers I wrote for class.  Gone.  The memory is in me and not in any object anymore.  None of these define me.  They are only objects, dreams of who I will never be, that are festering, incomplete, ignored, shoved in boxes and in corners.  Taking up space.  Time to choose and move on.  And the objects that represent the things I did become...they can go, too: already a part of me.  All of this baggage I don't want to take with me.  I don't want to move it, or carry it, or store it anymore.  

I woke up ready to let it all go, less traumatic, less guilt today.  The pleasures of moving.

I don't have a place yet, but I still have to move.