I've been trying to begin the packing process for the past few days, but it's so difficult. From an organizational standpoint, I have too many things--books, records, keepsakes, clothes, instruments--so it's hard to determine what I need to bring vs. what I want to bring. On a deeper level, it reminds me of the fact that I am moving 1,242 miles away from everything I've ever known. At first I felt silly crying over all of the books I will be leaving behind, but I realize that I'm not crying for the books so much as what they represent: my childhood and adolescence and, most of all, my family. Looking around my room, my crying turns into sobbing as I see that this room will never be the same. It will always be mine, but it is being abandoned now. It has been my haven for so long--the place I go to when I need to escape, where I write songs, where I look out at the trees in the morning, where I hear the zoom of cars going by my window. For almost my entire life it has been a part of me--yes, in a physical and material sense, but it also transcends this somehow.
I am heartsick and beside myself. Even now I know I packed too many books and I'll have to remove a few in the coming days. I know I am making the right decision, but I didn't know it would be so painful. Big changes are not easy for me.
"It's never easy to say goodbye
To the faces
So rarely do we see another one
So close and so long
I asked the room if I'd said enough
No one really answered
They just said, 'Don't go, don't go'
Well, all this leaving is neverending"
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