Moving, again

December 16, Night: The biggest problem now comes from when to move. Of course I wish to, desire it with every ounce of my heart, at least I thought so.

December 17

I would somehow attempt to transport the vivid compactness of my window-side white bed and dresser underneath, the faithful floor lamp, desk neatly arranged with books, stray sticky notes, a clear bowl of water with a flower petal, and other random memorabilia.

How can I possibly find a substitute for the marble ledge on the bedside for my snowman cup of hot water, just enough room besides the blinds-turner rod? How can I ever dare to think of endowing my bed with teddy bears and cheerio box, chocolate wrappers and a roll of tissue paper? Or strewn over the desk remnants of a seeming massive hurricane attack of notes, books, photos, and assorted pens of multi-suspicious origins? All in their own place. Each according to its kind. The art pencil has to go into the black writing utensil holder beside the Popsicle stick. R. H. Blyth’s Haiku must permanently reside by Yauznari’s collection headed by Snow Country. The perfectly vertical list of books overdue printed on the recycled paper always ends my long row of pastel-colored sticky notes, with crooked handwriting layered on top of one another. And the blasted calendar that would never stay put for more than 11 hours (due to residence’s insistence on only using sticky tack for securing the vulnerability of cheaply-pasted walls), that too must be re-arranged. I seem to have a slight problem here. Not too serious, I hope.

I don’t even know how to begin…

Perhaps first by consciously removing my presence from the place. For I’ve imbued it with a strange silence that rarely exists in conjunction with the consistent blaring of reality TV shows just a few feet away. I didn’t think I’d find it hard to demand myself this, that I must extract the essence that was once mine and take it away, to elsewhere. I will pack up the intentional randomness, the bowl drained of water and petal of color, pack the stray quotations from Shakespearean sonnets and stacks of incomprehensible ancient poetry. I will pack the few articles of clothing once intimately worn and innocently displayed on these campus grounds. I will pack the place I’ve once said goodnight to. And good morning, now to a new day.